


Lost but Not Forgotten

by rae_is_typing



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Adoption, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Basements, Beaches, Birth certificates, Birthday Presents, Birthdays, Blood, Border Collies, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Choking, Confrontations, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cutting, Death Certificates, Depression, Dissociation, Distressing memories, Dogs, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Episodic Memories, FBI agents, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gaslighting, Guilt, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incarceration, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inconsistency, Kidnapping, Legal process, Lies, Litigation, Malformed Body Parts, Manipulation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, NCMEC, Near Death, News Media, Nicknames, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Procedural, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader has a malformed ear, Repressed Memories, Self-Harm, Sleeping Pills, Survivor Guilt, Tags May Change, The FBI agents are assholes in this, The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, Therapy, Threatening demeanor, Trials, Underage Drinking, Victim Blaming, Washington State, hypnotherapy, illegal adoption, implied suicidal thoughts, interrogations, kind of?, special agents, the reader really goes through some shit, two underage characters drink with their parents around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae_is_typing/pseuds/rae_is_typing
Summary: You were adopted on your sixth birthday by your loving parents, Emilia and Jason. You're finishing up junior year of high school with flying colors, you have a great friend and an even better family. Simple story, right?Wrong.You have these dreams, weird dreams with a man that looks eerily like you. You brush it off as nothing, just old memories of your biological family.Then you're assigned a research paper on anything that you want. You choose to research a cold case. Physical similarities are there: a malformed ear, birth marks, and a striking resemblance to an aged-up composite sketch, as well an unclear information about your adoption make you uneasy. Uneasy enough to take action.After that, your world comes crashing down.You weren't adopted. You were kidnapped.
Relationships: Deborah Falconer & Reader, Indio Downey & Reader, Original Female Character(s) & Reader, Original Male Character(s) & Reader, Robert Downey Jr. & Reader, Robert Downey Jr./Susan Downey, Susan Downey & Reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 79





	1. Prologue

“What’s your name?” 

“Deborah Falconer.” 

“What happened, Deborah?” 

“I was getting my son ready for school and my water broke!”

“Is there anyone you want us to call?”

“My husband, Robert!”

Deborah’s screams of pain and pants of exhaustion fill the room; she was too late for the epidural. Robert stands next to her, holding her hand and encouraging her through the excruciating pain.

“She’s crowning,” Her doctor informs, keeping the environment as calm as possible with soft words of encouragement.

The final stages of labor are nothing like she remembered. With Indio, everything went well. His birth was a fairly easy one, or so she’d been told.Robert cut the cord, she delivered the placenta and they bonded.

This wasn’t like her first birth. 

The cord wrapped around your neck sometime in the womb. 

The room is thrust into chaos. The doctor takes you, clips the cord, and sets you on a nearby table to begin saving your life. Nurses gather around their doctor, ready to respond to any direction. 

“Is she dead?” Robert panicked, his voice wavering.

“She has a heartbeat. If we can get her breathing in time, she will be okay.” A nurse responds. 

The next moments feel like years. Deborah’s breath hitches as she begins to cry. Robert runs a comforting hand up and down her arm as he prays to whatever was listening to him to save his baby girl. 

Shrill cries pierce the air as you take your first breath. Deborah lets out her own cry of relief as you're set on her chest to bond. A sigh of relief is taken throughout the room.

“Date of birth, March thirtieth, 2000.” A nurse remarks, writing it on a document. 

“You’re okay, you made it.” She whispers, stroking your face with her fingertips. Robert gazes at you, your little face, your little hand gripping your mother’s finger, and your gorgeous eyes. 

“Robert, look at her ear,” She frowns. “Something’s wrong.” 

“What is it?” 

“Dr. Ortega, come look at this.” Deborah beseeches, the worry clear in her voice. The doctor wipes her hands on a cloth before heeding her patient’s call.

“Where is it?”

“On her right ear, take a look.” She leans in, examining your ear. Humming to herself, she realizes the problem.

“It looks like her helix fused to her scapha. This is a small malformation. It won’t affect her when she grows up, it’s a cosmetic issue if anything. You can get it fixed if you’d like.” 

“No, it gives her character.” Robert says, smiling again and stroking your ear. He then looked back to his wife. “You’re going to be the disciplinarian for this one.” 

Deborah huffs out a laugh. “Robert, she’s not even an hour old.” 

\------

You and Deborah are able to go home a few days later. The doctor held them a few days longer than normal for tests to make sure there was no permanent damage done due to the lack of oxygen. The couple thanked their nanny profusely and went on to an ever impatient Indio, who had waited ages to meet his baby sister. 

He’s vibrating with excitement, struggling to stay still next to Robert as Deborah carries you to the couch. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Y/N. You have to be really careful okay, buddy? She’s really little and we don’t want her to get hurt.”

“I’ll be careful.” Deborah sits down next to Indio and gently set you in her seven-year-old’s arms. 

“She’s so little. Why is she so little?”

“Because she’s young. She’s only a few days old.”

“When is her birthday?”

“March 30th.” 

“Why’s her ear all messed up?” Before one of the two could answer, Indio tugs on your ear. You let out a sharp cry, face turning a different shade.

“Indio! Why’d you do that?” Robert exclaims as he took from his arms and began to calm you down.

“I was tryna fix her ear!” Indio defends, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Buddy, her ear doesn’t need fixing. And pulling on it like that hurt her.” Debora explains as gently as possible with the crying in the room. “What do we say when we do something wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles. 

\------

Days turn into nights, nights turn into weeks, weeks turn into months and months turn into years. Soon enough, the two exes and their kids are celebrating your sixth birthday on Waikiki Beach.

The sun beats down on Robert, but he smiles at the sight of his two kids playing with their mother. While they aren’t married anymore, they certainly don’t hate each other. She’s the mother of his kids after all. He fights with himself everyday over his past choices. Due to his addiction and actions, he hasn’t seen you since Christmas, the longest time outside of prison he’s gone without seeing either of his kids. But determined to make all your memories of him positive ones. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” Robert grins as you ran towards him. He crouches, holding out his arms, letting you fall into his embrace. 

“N/N! N/N!” He calls back to you, tossing you into the air and catching you. You squeal, giggles spilling from your lips until he settles you on his hip.

“Look at our sand castle! Its so big!” You wave your arm, emphasizing your work.

“Wow! Your castle is pretty big. Are you working together?” 

“Uh-huh! Indio let me put the flag on top.” The flag is an umbrella he had gotten in a smoothie prior to their beach adventure and you had refused to let him throw it away.

“That was very nice of him. Did you say thank you?”

“Mhm!” You nod so fast that Robert puts a hand on your head to stop you. He is about to speak again when you began squirming in his arms. 

“Daddy! There’s a dog! Can I go see it? Please?” You beg, pointing at a large brown and white Akita. 

“Sure, N/N. Let's go.” He sets you down and turns to Debbie and Indio to let them know where you guys are going. When he turns back, you're already running toward the dog. 

“N/N! You have to wait for me,” He calls, beginning to jog after you.

“I’ll be okay!” 

An influx of people come between the two of you. With families, tourists, and local surfers surrounding him, he lost sight of you for a few seconds.

“N/N?” 

That’s all it took.

“Y/N!”

One blink and you’re gone.

\------

The stone bench warms Emilia’s bare skin. Her sunglasses not only hide her eyes from the sun’s piercing rays, but onlookers and tourists from the tears slipping down her cheeks. It’s been two months since Charlotte passed and the wound isn’t healing. All of these families, all of these happy children with their parents, it’s too much. 

Then she spots a little girl. 

She has gorgeous Y/H/C hair pulled into an adorable hairstyle. She has Y/S/C skin and she dons a swimsuit Emilia had bought Charlotte before everything their lives were turned upside down. She looks just like her, just like her lost daughter. She’s playing in the sand with a young teenager, getting sand all over themselves.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have her baby back with her, what she wouldn’t do to get her back.

Taking a deep breath, Emilia stands from the bench. She knows what she was going to do, no- what she needed to do- and how she was going to do it. 

She buys at least three different packages of sleeping pills, a pocket knife and a new outfit from an ABC store. Afterwards, she returns to the same spot on the beach. Scanning the sea of sand, she searches for that perfect girl she had seen earlier. A small smile appears on her face when she sees her. The little girl is gleefully running towards a big brown and white dog, pushing through large groups of people with little regard for anything but the animal she’s running towards.

Emilia puts on a facade within seconds. Her face twists with real distress as she speed walks to the girl, pushing passed other tourists with tears of relief filling her eyes. She scoops her up, setting her on her hip, and pushes the little girl’s face into her shoulder to muffle any protests. She wraps both arms around her, cementing her tiny body to her much stronger one.

“Sorry about my daughter,” Emilia plasters on a grateful smile for the man walking the dog. Her tone jumps to disciplinary and stern, directing her attention to the little girl in her arms. “What did mommy say about wandering off, Charlotte? You could have gotten lost! Or hurt!”

The dog owner smiles, nods, and with a thick accent dismisses her gratitude. “It's not a problem, she’s really sweet.”

“Thank you so much. Have a good day.” 

The dog walker kept on his way and, Emilia began walking in the largest crowd she could find, spotting a family restroom farther along the trail another family is exiting. The young girl in her arms struggles, whines, and attempts to scream while Emilia locks the door.

“Lemme go!” The young girl cries, pushing against the woman’s chest, trying to hit her hard enough to let her go. “Da-” Emilia slaps a hand over her mouth. 

“We do not hit,” She all but hisses to the girl. “Do you understand me?” She feels her struggle in her arms even more. Her face hardens. Anger fills her eyes as she digs her sharp nails into the girl’s arms. 

“Do you understand me?” She repeats, voice deepening. The little girl nods, tears of fear now forming in her eyes.

Emilia smiles, all anger melting from her face as strokes the spot on her arm her nails had dug into. “Good. Let’s get ready for our flight.” She pulls out the outfit she had bought from the ABC store: a child-sized floral sundress, a floppy sun hat, small sandals, and sunglasses. 

“Put these on, Charlotte.” She tells the little girl. She sniffles, tears rolling down chubby cheeks when Emilia hands her the clothes. 

“Not my name.” She mumbles.

“What?” 

“Not my name!” She shouts, little arms crossed over her chest.

"What is your name?" 

"No!"

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." Emilia grabs her arm in the same spot, digging her nails in once more. "I'll ask again. What is your name?" 

"No." She whimpers. 

"What. Is. Your. Name." 

"Y-Y/N." She whimpers, pawing at Emilia’s hands. "Stop," 

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Emilia rubs the spot before wiping away the tears of her crying daughter. "Now let's get you dressed for the plane."

“No!” The small girl protests once more, regaining some of her previous strength.

“Excuse me?” Emilia hisses, standing at full height. 

“No, I want my mom, and my brother, and-and my dad! I don’t want you. Let me go! I don’t wanna go on a plane!” 

“Stop this now! You will put these clothes on and you will take what I give you or there will be consequences.” Emilia grabs her small arms, quelling the weak attempts at fighting back. Anger bubbles in her chest. She is trying to help her daughter get home safely, how dare she fight her! 

Emilia crouches down and grabs a pill from each package and her water bottle. She grabs the girl’s face and forces her mouth open. After shoving the pills in her mouth, she forces her small mouth on the straw. 

“Swallow it.”

Emilia’s satisfaction grows as she watches her daughter drink the water and swallow the pills. She’d be down and out in no time at all. Her satisfaction dissipates when Y/N starts choking. Jumping into action, she kneels behind her, hitting her back firmly until she starts to cough.

“There you go. Mommy’s got you, you’re alright.” She comforts, hugging the now sobbing girl. She makes no attempt at escaping her embrace or correcting her. And within the next few minutes, the woman has the dead weight of a small child on her shoulder. 

Emilia maneuvers the small girl so she's leaning against the back of the toilet. She grips the base of her updo with care before opening the blade of the new pocket knife and cuts just under the hair tie, tucking the cut hair into a plastic bag. She puts the plastic bag in her purse, and discards the knife in the trash can. Running the now cut hair through her fingers, she smiles. Even more like Charlotte. She’s almost there.

She dresses the girl swiftly, not wanting to miss their flight. Her daughter is light and fits perfectly in Emilia's arms as she exits the bathroom and treks through the crowds of people. 

\------

A grueling twelve hours and more pills later, the two girls arrived home. Emilia lifts her new daughter from the car seat she hadn’t thrown out yet. She holds the girl on her hip and walked to the front door of her home in Maine. When she opens the door, she was met by her estranged husband.

His blue eyes fill with shock when he sees his wife, but he does a double take when he sees a little girl in her arms. Ushering her inside, he begins to interrogate her. “Emilia, what the hell?” 

“This is Y/N. Isn’t she beautiful?” 

“What?” 

“I found her in Hawaii, she’s our perfect daughter, isn’t she?” 

“What do you mean you found her in Hawaii?” 

“She was petting a dog, no one was with her. They left their little girl alone, obviously they were neglecting her. We are going to give her a better home. She’s our new daughter. She is everything we need. We can be a family again, Jason.”


	2. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's your seventeenth birthday...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Flashbacks/distressing memories, referenced drug and alcohol abuse, mourning the loss of a child, underage drinking with adults around,

Waves lap at the sandy shore, seagulls screech above head, and the aromatic sea air fills the atmosphere. The sun is shining, but it isn’t hot. The breeze and the cool ocean air balance the heat, making the day even more perfect.

You pull up the sleeves of your sweater and crouch down to prepare for the large brown and white Border Collie running at you with a ball clamped in his mouth. He bounds towards you, fur going all over the place. 

"Good boy, Lear!" You laugh as he trots around you in a sort of victory lap. He drops the slobbery ball at your feet and barks, urging you to throw it again. You pick it up, pull your arm back and throw it with all your might, grinning as he bounds after it without missing a beat. 

Lear runs back to you. He does his victory lap and then plops down by your feet, panting. You've been at the beach for about three hours at this point, hanging out with your friend and her dog. It was a cold day, reaching around 50 degrees. 

That's Washington for you. 

"Who's a good boy?" You ask as you scratch behind his ears. The waves continue to slap the shore, foam washed away with each wave. You wouldn't trade this for the world; it is so peaceful. Taking a deep breath in, you shut your eyes and continue stroking the needy dog by your feet. It’s such a perfect way to spend the morning of your seventeenth birthday. 

Someone grabs your shoulders, tackling you from your crouched position to the ground. Sand explodes in your face, contaminating your eyes, nose, and mouth.

_It was hot, you're crouched down. Someone picks you up. It’s bright, too bright. Her arm is brown. Her voice is simultaneously unfamiliar and too familiar. You struggle. Pain shoots up your arm. Then you're choking. Make it stop. Make it stop make it stop please please make it stop I don’t want it I don’t want it please. I can’t breath. Why can’t I breathe?_

"Happy birthday!" The cheerful tone of your best friend replaces your mantra, effectively pulling out of whatever the hell that was. 

"Jesus Christ, Ashlynn. You fucking scared me!" You snap, putting a hand over your chest. 

She stands up, laughing. "You're finally seventeen! Welcome to the big kids club!" 

"You say that every year. Just because you're a month older than me does not mean you're apart of 'the big kids club'. I don't even know that means!" You retort, a smile on your face.

"C'mon, get out of the sand." She ignores your claim, holding a hand out for you. You take it. An evil grin grows on your face as you pull her down next to you. Lear starts barking, running around the two of you. 

"You bitch!" Ashlynn laughs again, shoving your arm.

"You deserved it. Now get up. Your dog child needs you," Ashlynn rolls her eyes, getting up anyways. She tends to Lear, who is riled up and ready to play again. You follow suit, getting up and playing with Lear. 

"I thought you were getting drinks," You comment as Ashlynn throws the ball again. 

"I put them in your car. I didn't want to tackle you with scalding hot coffee in my hand." 

"Thanks, I appreciate your slight concern for my well being." You dedpan.

"You're welcome," She smiles, taking your sarcasm as a compliment. 

"Where are we going now?" You ask, pulling your keys from your pocket.

"I'm starving. Let's get something to eat." 

"Alright. Preferences?" 

"Anything but Chinese. You remember what happened last year.” Ashlynn grimaces, leashing Lear back up.

“What, you don’t want to get food poisoning again together? It was such a bonding experience.” You say, getting into your unlocked car. “And an amazing sweet sixteen.” 

The two of you laughed as you walked to your car and off to find a place that wouldn’t make you both puke your guts out.

After eating lunch, you and Ashlynn headed back to your hometown, a small town named Langley. You drop her and Lear off off after thanking her for the great morning. Parking the car in the garage, you answer a few texts, and finally go inside.

“I’m home!” You call as you make your way in the house. 

“In the dining room!” Your mom called. You follow your mom's voice into the dining room.

“Happy birthday!” The exclamation is accompanied by big hugs from both of your parents.

“Thank you!” You grin, squeezing them back. 

You sit around at the dining table as your mom disappears for a moment. You tell your dad about your day at the beach with Ashlynn, purposefully leaving out the imagery. You mother comes back with a few gift bags on her arms. 

“Happy birthday, honey. Start with this one,” She breathes out, handing over a striped bag with Stay Fabulous! written in bold italic letters. You discard the tissue paper to see two things wrapped in cloth. Picking up the one closest to you, it’s easy to tell what it is. A picture. You unfold the cloth, revealing a picture of you and your parents in front of one of the bridges on the island. It’s surrounded by a gorgeous silver picture frame with sharp edges and a few gem accents. 

Smiling down at the picture, you reach for the other one. It has the same frame, but the picture is candid. You were eating an ice cream cone, laughing, and looking at a seagull. It’s a candid shot with the water in the background. 

“I didn’t know you got a picture of that,” You laugh, placing the picture on the table with care.

“Well, we’re always watching,” Your dad jokes. “We are big brother,”

“Ha ha,” You fake laugh, beginning to open the other gifts. You get a book you’ve been interested in, a new pair of running shoes, and a set of keys.

“Keys?” You ask, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. You’ve been driving your dad’s car because your old beater had broken down. 

You dad smiles. “I want my car back. And you still have a lot to learn, Y/N. If you ever want to take over the business, you should be able to fix up your own car.” 

You can’t help yourself, you get up from your seat and practically tackle your dad in a hug. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. This knowledge will be useful later in life, honey.” You laugh, delighted by the surprise, and hugged him tighter. Your mom smiles at the sight, beaming at your excitement. You go to her next, hugging her just as tightly as you thank her as well. 

“Alright sweetheart, go get ready for tonight. We’re going to Erik and Carlos’s for dinner,”

You take your presents to your room, placing the keys on your lanyard, the shoes on the rack, and the pictures on your desk. You do your hair in two french braids, and keep your makeup to concealer, mascara, and lip gloss. This is going to be a small family event, even though none of you are related by blood. Erik co-owns the shop with your dad and they’ve known each other since they were kids themselves. Carlos and Erik married in Massachusetts shortly after the business started and adopted Ashlynn after that. Carlos works as an electrical technician in a local office. Your mother works in a clinic as a GP. She often pulls through long hours, but she always takes off holidays, birthdays, and a week in June to visit family in Maine. She makes time for you and your dad no matter what. 

Both your mother and father are the best parents than you could ever ask for. You’re aware of the horrors that so many unfortunate kids face in the foster system and orphanages. You feel so lucky that you have them in your life, so lucky that they cared enough to adopt you, and so lucky that they’re able to provide for you. They love you so much, and they remind you everyday. Whether it’s through text, a hug, asking if you’ve eaten, teaching you important life lessons, or treating you like a princess on your birthday. You can’t ask for anyone or anything better. 

“Y/N?” A knock at your door and the voice of your mom pulls you from your phone. “Are you ready to go?” 

“Yeah,” You say, getting up and meeting your parents in the living room. 

The walk to Ashlynn’s house is short. She lives a few houses down from your family, so the walk lasts five minutes if not shorter. They live in a beautiful piece of land with a one story house, and a really nice backyard for Lear to play in. 

Your family walks up the porch, and Carlos opens the door with enthusiasm. “Jason, Emilia, buenas tardes!” He gives each of them a warm hug as a greeting before turning to you. “!Feliz cumpleaños!” 

You thank him with a hug and you’re ushered inside. Ashlynn and Erik call their greetings from the kitchen, busy with what you assume to be dinner.

“Need any help?” You ask, popping your head through the doorway. 

“That would be lovely, can you take some of this food to the table? Everything else is ready,”

You oblige, helping move the last of the food and beer to the table. Dinner smells amazing, and there is no doubt in your mind that it'll taste better. Carlos is one of the best cooks you know. He even helped fund-raise with the track team through selling tamales. You would kill for his tamales, which is why you and Erik requested them for your shared birthday. 

After a prayer is said, both families dig in. After a few beers, your dad begins to tell his favorite stories of his and Erik's high school days in rural Maine. They rode 4-Wheelers to school and smoked in the hallways, they even went cow tipping a time or two. Carlos tells a few stories of him and Erik on their honeymoon in the Caribbean where they had to hitchhike to their hotel after their rental broke down and didn't have the tools to fix it. According to him, they hitchhiked all the way back to that area to fix it up. 

You and Ashlynn have a hard lemonade each. According to your mother, beer should be abstained from until you're 25 lest you damage your brain cells, but a hard lemonade is okay because of the lower alcohol content.

Your mom tells the story of your 'Gotcha Day,' which is on the same day as your birthday. She dives into the details about going to Hawaii and seeing you for the first time and the plane ride back home to Maine. You try to keep the confusion off your face, the last time she told you this story, she said home was Rhode Island. However, you elect to brush it off. She had a beer, it was probably just a slip of the tongue.

The rest of the night is spent talking and celebrating your seventeenth birthday and Erik’s forty-fifth birthday. You have another hard lemonade and a slice of cake before you call it a night. Despite Carlos’s protests, you and your parents help clean up before going home. 

\------

Sleep never comes easy to you. You often lay for hours before you sleep, mindlessly staring at the ceiling while wondering if you're ever going to get to sleep. 

Tonight is no different. You stared at the ceiling of your room and waited. You waited for calm, solidarity and peaceful darkness. However, once you fall asleep, you get none of what you want. 

_You’re on a beach. It’s hot, and there’s sand in between your toes. You’re building something with a boy, a structure, or a marker of some kind. You can’t make out his face, only that he’s white and his hair is either dark blonde or light brown. Then there’s an umbrella, one of those fake plastic ones that are in drinks. It’s handed to you, and you put it the structure. You turn. A man comes into your line of sight. You make out brown eyes and brown hair. He is also white, but with more color to him than the boy. He lifts his arms, holding them out to you. You sprint to him, falling into his embrace. You’re then lifted in the air, caught, then thrust into the air again. Shrieking laughter fills your ears. You stop moving, watching the man’s lips move as he says something. His voice is muffled, but it makes you feel safe, calm, and you know that you’re okay.  
Something catches your eye. A dog. A dog that looks just like Lear, but with a curled tail. Then you’re running. You pet the dog, the soft fur running through your fingers. Now muffled giggles waft through the air.  
Suddenly, you’re yanked up.  
Then you can’t breathe. You’re carried away from the dog. Someone forces your mouth open. You fight. Pain, up your arms, all over your body, down your throat. Scream. They’ll save you. Scream. They’ll save you. Scr-_

You shoot up, stifling a scream. Labored gasps burst through your chest as you heart pounds against your ribs. Sweat drips down your face, along with a few tears. 

It’s almost pitch black; the only light coming into the room is through the shut blinds of your window. You’re not on the beach, you’re safe in your bedroom. 

But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like you ran a marathon, or escaped someone with malicious intentions. Panicked, you grope your bed until a cold metal meets your hand. Your fingers tighten around your phone. You turn it on to be met with the bright light of your lock screen. 

2:49 AM

You only slept for one hour. "Fuck…". 

_What was that? You think, setting your phone back down on your bed. That's never happened before… Maybe it was the alcohol? No way, there was barely any alcohol in that._

Closing your eyes, you breathe deeply through your nose, hold your breath, and exhale slowly. Blurry images of the dream appear once more.

_Fluffy dark brown hair, brown eyes with no clear shape, a smile with wrinkles, and peach fuzz with a faint mustache._

_What the fuck…_ you shake your head, trying to wipe the images away.

You can’t stay in bed after that, you need to document whatever that dream was. The hair on your neck stands on end, your stomach churns, and you look around your room for any signs of danger before throwing the blankets off of you. You leap out of bed and grope your desk for your journal and a pen.

You plop down on your desk chair, turning on your table lamp to get a visual of the small notebook in front of you. Throwing open your journal, you flip through the pages until you land on a blank one. Your handwriting comes out to be scribbles as you jot down the imagery, the scene, and the overwhelming fear that came along with it all.

After you finish writing, you shake out your hand; you haven’t written anything that fast in your life. Now you’re calmer. Your heart has slowed down to a normal rate, so has your breathing. Closing the journal, you lean back in your chair and rub your face. Assuming the best route is distraction, you turn on your laptop that had been discarded in your rush. After perusing the internet, the first thing recommended to you on every social media site and streaming platform is a newscast that had been live hours, almost a day, before. 

_**Theories About Y/N Falconer-Downey’s Disappearance**_

Frowning, you click on the link and turn the sound down until you could barely hear the two reporters. 

“It is Y/N Falconer-Downey’s seventeenth birthday and the eleventh anniversary of her disappearance. She was last seen on Waikiki beach in Hawaii celebrating her sixth birthday with her mother and singer-songwriter, Deborah Falconer, father and prominent pop culture figure, Robert Downey Jr, and her brother, Indio Falconer-Downey.”

“That’s right, Kim. Robert claims she ran towards a dog. The father and daughter then got separated, and he never saw her again. Now there are many theories as to what may have happened here, the most likely one being sex trafficking. It is very common for minors, especially young girls, to be abducted from public places and forced into a trafficking ring.”

“More popular theories include involvement of the family. Many believe that RDJ had something to do with her disappearance as he was the last one to see her. He was also still recovering from a drug addiction at the time of his daughter’s disappearance. This fact leads some to claim that he sold her for drug money. Others believe that both Deborah and Robert didn’t want a second child and decided to get rid of her. And finally, and probably the most ridiculous theory in my opinion, some believe Y/N’s disappearance is one ongoing publicity stunt meant to garner popularity and sympathy for the family.”

“Although the family and friends of Y/N believe that she is alive, she was presumed dead in 2013 after seven years of no confirmed contact. As sad as this case is, I have to resign myself here. She’s probably never coming home.”

“That is a very unfortunate reality for everyone involved with this case. There is little information about any similar cases. However, after her disappearance, there were at least three separate trafficking rings, both international and local, busted in an attempt to find her.”

“That is probably the only positive event to come out of this case, Jerry. Now we are moving onto-” 

Robert shuts off the television. Leaning back in the chair at his desk, he runs a hand over his mouth before covering it completely. He holds back tears. Most people will never understand how painful it is to lose a child and never know what happened to them. Most people are lucky. The last thing he needs is a reminder of the date, yet he does this to himself anyways.

March thirtieth. The day he lost everything. 

Robert’s phone chimes. That surely signals the first message of support for the day. He sighs, shutting his phone off completely. It's not that he didn’t want the support, he appreciated it, he really did. However, he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts, his memories, and his pictures of you for awhile before he had to go out and face the rest of the world.

He picks up a framed picture on the desk in his office, cradling it in his hands. It’s of you and Indio a few days before your disappearance. Deborah took it. Indio was giving you a piggy-back-ride and you were both beaming for the camera. You were showing off your first missing tooth. Robert smiles at the picture, fingers tracing the frame as he wishes he could tell you he loved you and embrace you one more time. 

There are times he is selfish and longs for the burn of whiskey down his throat, or even the high from the drugs that helped destroy him, anything to make missing you less painful, anything to make him feel happy, or even a little bit better. 

He knows he has too much to lose. His self-respect, his career, but most importantly his family. 

He’s been cooped up in his office since last night, not sleeping a wink or doing anything but torturing himself with the old pictures and news coverage. But it’s too soon when there’s a small knock and the patter of feet on the ground. 

“Daddy! Mama says you need to come for breakfast.” Exton says, running towards his father.

In spite of himself, Robert smiles. He sets the picture down and stands up, letting the little boy grab his much larger hand. “Alright, Ex. Let’s go eat with Mama.”

Exton tugs him to the kitchen, gleefully taking his spot at the table when the pair gets their. He waits for his parents, kicking his legs at his seat. Avri sits in her high chair, entertaining herself with dry cereal.

Susan gives Robert a sad smile before hugging him gently and kissing him on the cheek. They embrace in the kitchen for as long as Exton would let them.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” Exton pouts.

“Right. Let’s eat,” Susan says.

They wait until after breakfast to bring up the topic looming over head. Susan goes to change Avri while Robert talks to his youngest son. He picks up a card from the counter before sitting by his son once more. It’s a simple black and pink card with a floral design. 

“Exton, do you remember what today is?”

“Thursday.”

Robert smiles. “You're right, it is Thursday. But do you know why today is important?”

Exton pauses, thinking hard. “No.”

“Do you remember me telling you about N/N?”

“Yeah,”

“Well today is her birthday. So I’m writing something nice for her on a card. Do you want to write something too?”

“Uh huh!” Exton nodded enthusiastically. The two of them write on the card before putting it in the envelope.

“When is N/N coming home?” Exton asks.

Robert hums. “I don’t know, Ex.” 

“Where is she? I want her to come home.”

“I want her to come home too.”

“Why is she gone?” That question always cuts deep. He never knows how to answer it. He never wants to answer it. 

“I don’t know.”

"Did she get in trouble? Whenever I get in trouble I go to time out and whenever I'm in time out I don't see you until time's up."

Robert bites his lip. "She's not in time out, bub."

Exton opens his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by Susan coming back into the room. Robert leans down, hugging Exton and giving him a small kiss on the head. He stands, taking Avri from Susan's arms to cuddle his daughter before hugging his wife. 

"I need to go. I'm meeting Debbie and Indio at the memorial. I'll be back by noon." He says, kissing his wife over his daughter. 

"Okay," Susan smiles softly again. Robert bid goodbye to his kids once more before grabbing his things and leaving. Normally, Robert had a driver and security detail, but he always drives alone to the memorial.

Your memorial is technically a grave as you were pronounced legally dead in 2013. Up until that point, those seven years held nothing but hoaxes and no real contact from you or any confirmed kidnappers, hence being presumed dead.

However, none of them have lost hope that you’re out there somewhere, hopefully alive and well. There are days where they all wish something was found, even if it was remains. As devastating as that would be, they would at least have closure. All Robert has felt for the past eleven years is longing, fear, anger, and the overwhelming guilt he felt knowing that he could have done something to save his daughter. If only he was faster, if only he had never put you down, if only he had ran towards the first kid that looked like you in someone else's arms.

There are nights where he can’t sleep. The theories he has running through his mind, his hopes and prayers for his lost daughter, and the undying love he has for you. He sits in the empty room most nights like that. He’s waiting for you to come home before it’s decorated. He knew you for six years before you went missing, and he knows how particular you are. Sometimes he imagines you reading, curled up in a chair like a cat, or doing your hair and makeup in front of a white vanity, maybe even rehearsing lines or songs in the bathroom mirror. And then he’d smile. In his mind, it was like you never left.

Then the tears would come. Each time, the realization hit him like a bus. You aren’t there to ask him about crushes or relationships. He can’t teach you how to drive, give the shovel talk to your first date, see you off on her first day of high school, or take you on the “Daddy-daughter” dates the two of you went on every chance he got. Every fiber of his being aches for his lost baby. All he wants is you back, and he prays to whatever was out there to be merciful, to bring his daughter back to him; or at the very least, keep his baby safe. 

No one knows where you are. No one knows anything about the disappearance. Even the FBI’s best were stumped when they came onto the scene. It was like you disappeared out of thin air, or like you had never existed in the first place. It kills more and more of him everyday.

But he’ll see you again one day. Maybe it’ll be you greeting him at the gates of heaven, your little hands reaching up for a hug because you really did die that day and you haven’t seen your dad in decades. Maybe it’ll be when he’s lying on his deathbed and you’re a hallucination, or maybe you’ll have children of your own. Maybe you’ll be a world renowned doctor that cured cancer, or maybe you’ll come into his life and he won’t even know it’s you. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He just wants another chance to tell you he loves you and that he never gave up. 

Robert picks up the flowers he had ordered on his way to the memorial: a large bouquet of pink carnations and white lilies held together by a black ribbon tied into a bow. It’s something he does each year on your birthday.

The memorial is covered in flowers when he gets there. He smiles, thankful that your memory is still alive in the hearts of so many, even if it is because he’s famous. In that moment, he’s the only one there. He crouches down, gingerly setting the flowers down in the center of the plot. 

  
_In loving memory of_  
_Y/N Y/M/N Falconer-Downey_  
_Lost but not forgotten_  
_March 30 2000 - April 2 2013_

He sighs deeply, standing up fully. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he fights the tears in his eyes for the millionth time that morning

“Lost but not forgotten,” He mumbles to himself. There is no doubt in his mind that the phrase on the headstone was trending on social media. It always did. Until Kyra… 

Anger replaces his mourning. His jaw sets as he grits his teeth. Years later, and he still can’t control his rage whenever he thinks about her. 

His train of thought is cut off by a hand being placed on his shoulder. He looks up to see his eldest son and his ex-wife. No words are exchanged as his broken family stands over the grave of their youngest, all hoping and praying vain that you’ll return one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Lemme know what you think :)
> 
> If you have tumblr and want to be added to the taglist over there, my URL is @rae-is-typing. The tag list will be closed on January 31st, 2020.


	3. Memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attempt to find out the truth about your adoption, go back to therapy, and make some interesting discoveries about your past. Meanwhile, the head agent on your case investigates someone of interest in Puerto Rico, and Robert is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit discussions about anxiety, depression, and PTSD as well as swearing, manipulation, gaslighting, therapy sessions, and mental health diagnosis. Please do not read this if any of those things trigger you.

The strange dreams hold on to you. That man keeps coming back, you don’t know why. You’ve even started dreaming about a woman. She has ocean blue eyes and the same sandy hair as the boy. Each dream, all of their faces and features become clearer, yet they’re still blurred. If didn’t know any better, you’d say they were your biological family, but you can’t be sure. 

The strangest thing, however, is the crippling anxiety you feel each time you wake up. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. Your heart races a mile a minute, and it takes you hours to feel at least okay.

Everything you know surrounding your adoption is equivocal. However you know three things for sure: you were adopted from Hawaii, you were taken home on your birthday, adn your biological family was unable to take care of you,

At least, that’s what your father told you.

Your mother often changed the story. Her answers were the same as your dad’s when you began asking questions. 

When you asked your parents why you looked like neither of them, your dad explained that you weren’t related, and while your biological family loved you, they couldn’t take care of you. So, they let him and your mother take care of you for good. Your had mom agreed.

Naturally, you asked more questions as you got older. Where was I born? Did you know my parents? What are their names? Are they still alive? Can I meet them? Are they still in Hawaii? How old are they? Do I look a lot like them? Do you have any pictures?

Those questions always upset your mom. She wouldn’t answer them, even if it was to clarify the story about your ‘Gotcha Day’ as she so affectionately put it. If you were sitting down for a meal, she would excuse herself from the table, even if you were at a restaurant. If you were in the car, she would change the subject or not acknowledge you at all until you reached the destination, and then she would act as if it wasn’t mentioned in the first place. If you were spending time as a family, she would shut down, either retreating to her room or office. And if you managed to wear her down, she said it was a closed adoption from Maine. If you wore her down again, it was an open adoption from Virginia. It was never consistent. Nothing lined up with your father’s statements. But you were inclined to believe him because he always answered honestly, even if the answer is ‘I don’t know.’

The people from your dreams could very well be your biological family. You find traits from both adults within yourself. The man’s face, the woman’s laugh. If you could only remember their faces more clearly…

Maybe that’s why you felt brave enough to ask about your biological family tonight. You want answers, and you aren’t taking no for an answer. 

The sun shines through the white blinds, illuminating the dark oak table. Cool glass plates weigh your hands down as you set the table for dinner. The smell of oven-baked salmon and veggies wafts into the dining room from the kitchen. You quell your nerves through breathing exercises you learned through therapy years ago. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you feeling okay?” You dad asks, standing between the kitchen and dining room. “You’re not looking too great.”

“Yeah,” You respond, voice soft. You miss the skeptical look he gives as you continue setting the table. 

“I’m back. The store didn’t have any 1% milk. I had to get 2%.” Your mom’s voice rings through the house.

“That’s okay. We’ll live.” You say, another wave of anxiety creeping along your skin like a swarm of unwanted bugs.

“Speak for yourself,” Dad cuts in. “2% milk is disgusting.” You pay them no mind as you finish setting the table. Your mother gives him an affectionate eye roll before pecking him on the lips.

“Let’s get dinner going, I don’t know about you, but I am starved.” Mom proclaims, taking her seat next to you. Dad comes in a few moments later setting the platter of salmon and veggies on the table.

The anxiety festering in your stomach coupled with the aroma of food makes you want to vomit. The sinking feeling you have is familiar and wholly unwelcome. You’re no stranger to anxiety and stress to a soaring degree. Having an anxiety disorder was no walk in the park, especially coupled when it’s coupled with depression.

Your parents share small talk about their day while you roll the veggies around your plate with a fork. Mom talks about another physician joining the clinic- a pediatrician. Dad talks about expanding his business. 

“Y/N,” You meet your mom’s brown eyes that are laced with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” 

“Are you sure? You’ve barely touched your food.” She says, reaching to place her hand on your forehead.

You duck your head, narrowly dodging her. “I just have something on my mind…”

“Well,” Dad starts, leaning close as if you were going to tell him a secret. “Spill the tea, sister.”

You don’t react to your dad’s poor attempt at making the situation light hearted. “I have a couple questions about my adoption.” 

The mood shifts. Tension fills the room, suffocating you further. Mom stops eating. She sets her fork down and wipes her mouth with her napkin before turning her full attention to you. “And what would those be?” Her tone matched her eyes, cold and callous, replacing the warm chestnut they were moments ago. 

“Which state was I adopted from?”

“Hawaii."

“Last time asked you said I was adopted from Rhode Island.”

“No, we lived in Rhode Island when we first adopted you.”

“We lived in Maine. You’ve even told me that I was adopted from Maine,”

“Sweetie,” Your mother’s tone changed from hard to overly sweet and condescending in a matter of seconds. “You’re confused. It's okay. Depression and anxiety can make you confused and forgetful. It'll pass, I'm sure. You were adopted from Hawaii, we took you home to Rhode Island." 

“Do you have a picture of my biological family?”

“No.” She answers bluntly, voice still sweet as pie.

“What are their names?”

“We don’t know.” 

You tilt your head. That doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t their names be on your birth certificate? “Can I meet them?”

The color drains from her face. For a moment, you’re unable to tell whether she is going to yell or leave. She does the latter. She stands and left her half-eaten plate of food at the table and went upstairs, presumably to her and your dad’s bedroom. 

You sat back in your chair with a defeated sigh locking eyes with Dad. “You’ll tell me the truth, right?”

It’s his turn to sigh. “You know how she can be with this. But I can’t say where she adopted you from. We were separated at that time.”

“I didn’t know people could adopt when they’re separated."

He shrugs. “I’ll go talk to her. Can you clean this up, please?”

“Yeah.” You say as Dad leaves. Your head falls to your hand. Rubbing your temples, you hope to avoid a headache. Why was this so hard? 

Nevertheless, you get up from the table and begin cleaning. After gathering all of the dishes and putting them in the sink, you get an idea. What if they’re talking about it? If they weren’t going to be direct, maybe you could information indirectly.

So you leave the water running in the empty sink, and sit on the landing of the stairs, listening with strained ears. Muffled voices fade in and out, but you make out a few sentences. 

“She’s getting older-”

“She cannot find out!” Furrowing your brows, you climb the next few stairs to hear better.

“What about college? What about a job? What about her life?”

“We’ve made it this far, Jason.”

“She can’t live with us forever. We can’t give her money for helping around the house and around the shop forever!” You’re taken aback by his worried tone. He never snaps at you; he is always the gentle one.

“We’ll figure it out. We have to. I can’t lose her, not again.”

“Emilia, she is not Charlotte. Charlotte died-”

“Don’t say that.” Mom’s voice breaks. The sound of shuffling snaps you out of your confusion. You dash down the stairs and back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. 

\------

Your sad attempts at finding out the details of your adoption story left you with even more questions. What can’t you find out? More importantly, why can’t you find it out? Who the fuck is Charlotte? 

Your attempts at finding information online were fruitless, leaving you feeling defeated. All you want is the truth about your adoption story.  
Ashlynn knows her adoption story by heart. She was born in North Dakota and was adopted by her parents as a child, Erik and Carlos Rivera, shortly after her sixth birthday and was brought to Langley, the quaint island town you both reside in.

You cut your losses in finding out about the Charlotte character and start focusing on the dreams. Over the next few days, you pour over all of the journal entries you had written over three weeks. Words blurred together, faces became distorted and a pounding headache plagues you. 

Even worse than the constant headache is the anxiety. Something about those dreams is fucking your headspace up royally. You're scared of leaving the house for anything other than school. For the last three or so weeks, ever since your birthday, you’ve been plagued with dread that only went away when you are alone. 

One day, you were walking down the main hall in school to your math class. You had awoken in a fog. Time passed too fast and too slow simultaneously, nothing felt real and you couldn’t seem to wake up fully. But that feeling, that sinking pit in your stomach, the intruding thoughts and the feeling of impending doom didn’t leave at all. Students wee rough housing, someone got shoved into you, knocking you both to the ground. They apologized and helped you pick up your stuff. All you knew was that is was hard to breath. You managed to make your way to the only single stall bathroom in the school and lock yourself in there until you calmed yourself down enough to drive home. You had your dad call the school and excuse you for the rest of the day. Ashlynn let you copy her math work after you told her what happened.

You’ve had panic attacks before, but this felt different. This felt like it was on another level. It’s like you’re losing control. And it keeps happening. Almost for a month, you couldn't function like you had before and you didn't understand why. Going back to therapy is something you’ve considered, but you aren’t proud of it. No, there’s nothing wrong in admitting you need help, it just feels as though all your previous progress on your mental health is being erased. You make an appointment nonetheless.

\------

You hate the lobby to your therapists office more than your dad hates 2% milk.  
The room is stuffy and too open all at the same time. The chairs are bricks and brightly colored posters stare at you, almost daring you to make a move. You almost had a panic attack waiting for your first appointment because you thought the entire hour was going to be the same as waiting for Dr. Liu to come and greet you. 

While you still hate the lobby, the therapy improved your well being. You went when it was hard to get out of bed. Everything was going to go all wrong all the time, and someone or something was going to go wrong at all times. It was so hard to breathe at times, and you didn't understand why. Other times, you were too tired to move. No matter how much sleep you got, no matter how many obligations you had, you didn’t feel strong enough to sit up, let alone go to school or extracurriculars. It got so bad you had to drop all extracurriculars.

Talking helped you a lot more than any drug did. Having someone that listened to you and care about what you had to say, someone that strived to improve your life was exactly what you needed. It had helped so much that felt you didn’t need to go anymore. So back in January, you and Dr. Liu decided that after around a year, you were well enough to stop the weekly appointments. 

Now you’re back. You set up the appointment the day after you eavesdropped. They fit you in the next week and now you’re being reminded how fucking boring the lobby is and how entertaining your keys and key chain are.

“Y/N?” You perk at the sound of your name. Dr. Liu had come into the lobby. She stands tall, dressed in a white button up blouse and slacks with black dress shoes. You stand from the brick-like seat and slip your keys in your bag alongside your phone and wallet. Dr. Liu offers a warm smile as she leads you to her office near the back of the building. 

“How was school today?” She asks on the way.

“I didn’t go.” You say as she opens the door.

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t.”

She nods, jotting down a note or two. “We’ll delve more into that in a moment. I have a few routine questions I’m going to ask. They’re for the standard screenings.” 

You nod, kicking off your sandals and curling up on the big velvet chair while holding a pillow to your chest.

“How is your depression?”

“It was getting better, I guess. I was having a lot more good days, I could get out of bed easily and I was even excited to go to school.”

“You’re speaking in past-tense. How is it now?”

“Not great. But I think my well-being has more to do with my anxiety.”

“Alright. How is your anxiety?”

“Really bad.”

“Have you identified possible triggers?”

“I feel fine when I’m on my own in a small room, but not when I’m surrounded by a large group of people. I feel like someone is going to hurt me.” You explain. Dr. Liu is safe. She’s one of the only people you’re comfortable talking to about this. She’s always honest with you, and she always answers your questions to the best of her abilities.

“When did this start?”

“On my birthday trip to Double Bluff Beach, something happened and it caused all of these weird dreams. After those started, I’ve felt like prey. And the dreams aren’t even normal. I dream of these people that I feel like I know. It's freaking me out, this hasn’t happened before.” You emphasize your point using hand gestures.

“Go on.”

“This has been happening almost every night. It’s either the same dream or a different one but with all of the same people. And after these dreams, I’m anxious all day. I feel like someone is going to try and hurt me, I’m scared of taking medicine for some reason, which has not happened since I was like six, and I panic if someone so much as brushes me in the hall at school. I stopped going on runs because they make me feel scared rather than happy, I feel like I'm losing my mind, and I’m so frustrated because everything I try is not working.” 

“What are you dreaming about?”

“The clearest one is me on the beach, I was distracted, I think I was picking something up. After that, I was grabbed from behind and taken somewhere, and something was forced into my mouth. I always woke up after that.”

“What else?”

“A man, a kid, and a woman. Their faces are never clear.”

“Who do you think they are?”

“Honestly, my biological family. But I can never get any straight answers from my mom or my dad so I don’t know for sure.”

“What happens in these dreams?”

You sigh. “I’m with the man, the woman, and the boy. We’re doing something and then I’m petting a dog, and then someone… grabs me, like picks me up and holds me so I can’t move.”

“And this is every night?”

You nod with pursed lips.

“I’m going to suggest something, Y/N. You’re allowed to shoot me down if this is something you don’t want to try.”

You perk up. “What is it?”

“Hypnotherapy. It helps recover repressed memories.”

“It’s a memory?”

“It could be. These are called episodic memories. Your dreams could be your subconscious trying to tell you something about your past. And with the symptoms you;re describing, it sounds very similar to PTSD,” 

You nod along, brows furrowed. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“I believe that hypnotherapy would make the memory clearer as well as make the diagnosis, coping, and recovery easier. There is a specialist coming next week from Seattle with an opening in her schedule. Your insurance would take care of the costs.”

You pause, mulling it over for a few seconds. “I’ll try it.”

“Okay. Her name is Dr. Levy, and the only opening is for Wednesday at nine AM. I do have an opening at ten if you’re interested in coming in and talking through the hypnotherapy.”

“That sounds good,”

\------

The next Wednesday, you’re meeting Dr. Levy for the first time. She’s an aging woman with graying curly hair. She dons a floral blouse and slacks with jewelry to match. Her office is spacious with windows on each wall, a mahogany desk near the door, and a cream velvet sofa along the farthest wall with a mahogany and velvet chair next to it. 

“Y/N, have a seat,” She says, gesturing to a long sofa along the far wall of her room. “I want to ask a few questions before we get started.”

You comply, sitting on the plush sofa. “Of course.”

She sits on a chair by the edge of the sofa, a pad of paper on her lap. “What are you looking to achieve from this appointment?”

“I want to recover episodic memories,” 

“From what age?”

“I’m not completely sure, four or five?”

“And you’re sure these are memories and not dreams?” She asks, giving you a skeptical look.

You nod. “Yes.”

She hums, writing down all the information. “Alright, describe the setting of the memory for me,”

“I was on a beach, it was hot, and I was running barefoot.”

She hums once again, jotting down the notes. “I need you to lie down for me.” 

You lie down on the couch as Dr. Levy instructs, offering your wrist. She takes it, laying her hand over yours. 

"Squeeze my wrist of you feel any fear," Her voice is even, soothing in a way. You nod silently, closing your eyes. 

"Go back to that day on the beach. It's warm, there's sand between your toes."

The sound of the waves and the smell of the beach fill your head. You're running towards a group of people. They tower over you, eclipsing you with ease. 

"I'm running," You whisper.

"Towards what?"

"A dog,"

"What does the dog look like," 

"Brown and white. It has a curled tail, but it's small. I think it's still a puppy," You say, hand slack on her wrist. 

"What about its walker?"

Your brows furrow together. You look up, trying to make out a face, but it's so blurry. "Short hair, white skin, blurry face." 

"Do you say anything?"

"No," You hear something though. "I hear a man. He's calling me N/N. No one calls me that." Your breathing instinctively speeds up as you begin to hear his voice again. Your fingers tighten around her wrist. 

"Do you heed his call?"

"No, I-I start to, but-" You're cut off by someone tearing you from the ground, pressing your face in their chest. 

"No-" You begin to struggle on the couch, holding onto Dr. Levy's wrist with a vise grip. 

"Y/N, you're safe. You're okay. Who has you?"

Tan skin surrounds you, the smell of the waves is replaced with the smell of perfume. You struggle to get a good a good picture of the person. “I-I can’t see,”

“Look harder, Y/N.”

You breathing comes in labored pants as you struggle in the grasp of the person. With enough wriggling, you make out the face of your mother. 

“Mom,” You gasp. “I can’t, let me go!” You grip tightens even more around her wrist. 

“I’m going to count down from five,” Dr. Levy says, voice still even. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

Your eyes open as you shoot up from your position on the couch. Your chest heaves. Fear courses through your veins as sweat drips in your eyes. Everything is dialed up to ten, blood rushes in your ears as your heart races a mile a minute. 

“Oh my god.” You whisper. “What the hell was that?”

“Breathe, Y/N. Would you like some water?”

You nod wordlessly. The cool water slides easily down your throat, washing away some of the panic. 

“My mom was the one that grabbed me.” You say, looking at Dr. Levy. “She’s the one I was having nightmares about?” This changed everything. Why the fuck would she grab you like that?

D. Levy leans back in her chair, face neutral. “There are many things that could have happened that day, Y/N. You were adopted, correct?”

“Yeah, I was,” You nod, looking down at your lap. Now you weren’t even sure of that.

“That very well could have been the day you were taken home. You could have ran away from her to play with the dog,”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. Right before, I saw a man I’ve only seen before in those memories.” 

Dr. Levy nods, humming in acknowledgment. “I will give your notes to Dr. Liu, your appointment with her is in about twenty minutes. Feel free to leave or wait in the waiting room.”

You nod, standing from the couch. “Thank you Dr. Levy.”

In the meantime, you go to the bathroom of the clinic. After washing your hands, you take a moment to gaze at yourself in the mirror. Dark, heavy bags under your eyes, cheeks beginning to hollow, and the dull glint of panic lingering in your eyes. You splash water on your face in a frivolous attempt to make yourself look alive. All you got was wet hair and water on your shirt. Sighing in defeat, you dry of your face and shirt with rough paper towels. 

You wait for the rest of the time in the lobby, head down and leg bouncing. Once you’re called back, you curl up as much as you can in a chair, holding one of the pillows to your chest as Dr. Liu reads the notes Dr. Levy made.

"This does qualify as a traumatic event." Dr. Liu says, moving to grab a book. Flipping through the pages, she settled on a page. "This screening is made up of yes or no questions. I want you to think about it and answer accordingly, okay? It’s very similar to the ones used for depression and anxiety"

You nod in response.

In the end, you answer yes to more questions than you’d like to admit. But instead of feeling okay with your diagnosis, you’re confused. 

Dr. Liu finished jotting down her notes. “You are showing moderate symptoms of PTSD,” She says, not unkindly. 

“I have a few questions.” You say, running a hand through your hair. 

“You can ask me anything,” Dr. Liu nods, setting her notebook aside.

“How is my mom picking me up a traumatic memory?” The genuine confusion you feel seeps into your voice. “Like, I don’t understand how that leads to PTSD She’s my mom.”

She nods along with your words. “At the time, you probably felt great amounts of fear. My educated guess would be that this happened right after you were adopted. You probably felt that she was a stranger, and her picking you up instead of a biological family member put you under a great deal of stress.”

“Then why now? Why not when I was younger?”

“Symptoms of PTSD usually manifest within a month of the traumatic event. It is possible you experienced these symptoms without remembering it. However, PTSD comes and goes. I think you were correct in assuming that you’re friend tackling you on the beach triggered these symptoms.”

“That makes sense, thanks.” you nod. 

"Of course. Now there are multiple treatment options for PTSD. Medication, cognitive behavioral therapy which is CBT, dialectical behavior therapy which is DBT, group therapy and experiential therapy. DBT would help you learn to change behavior that negatively impacts your mental and physical well being. Experiential therapy would let you explore the connection between the mind and the body while you’re healing. You’ve benefited greatly from CBT and talk therapy, so I strongly recommend that.” 

“Let’s stick with the CBT and talk therapy. I want to be able to focus. Finals are coming up, and I can’t afford to fail.”

“Okay, let’s begin with the paranoia.”

\------

Robert aches. 

He's like an old cherry wood door, creaky and ready to collapse. The adrenaline from filming all day is wearing off, and so is his facade. It's been three weeks since the anniversary of your disappearance, and things are only getting harder. Agent Irving, the lead detective on your case, always gets a larger case load around this time. Too much attention, too many fakers, and too many emotions. It’s hard to celebrate his own birthday when all he thinks about is the liars and how vile humanity can truly be. 

Three days ago, he had received an email from the special agent detailing a strong case in Puerto Rico. 

With each email like this, Robert instantly feels a rush of hope, excitement, and anxiety. He knows that there is a chance this could be it. This could be the day where it all falls into place, where everything makes sense, where he gets his baby girl back. But if the past eleven years have taught him anything about life, it is never going to be that time. 

Each year, without fail, there are at least three cases that Irving goes to inspect. None of them are actually a match. He never meets any possible girl without a DNA test being taken first; he learned that lesson the hard way. He vowed to himself years ago that none of the cases would end up like Kyra’s. Never again. No amount of joy would justify lying, cheating, and abuse from someone falsely claiming to be his daughter. 

He used to get angry. He used to pace around the room like a caged animal until he broke down into tears after each DNA test came back false. He used to spend hours on the phone with Deborah and Indio, talking and crying together until they lost their voices and ran out of tears. 

Now he’s tired. Numb, but not apathetic. He’s been standing in the storm for so long that he can’t feel the wind or the rain, but he’s soaked to the bone and everything hurts. He longs for the simpler days where he could tuck you in, take you to school, watch you read or color while he was answering emails, or watch the newest Disney movie with you. 

Opening his laptop, Robert goes straight to his email. 

_Re: Case in Puerto Rico_

He can’t help the spark of hope that ignites in his bosom.

_Falconer-Downey family,_

_I am sorry to say that the DNA from the girl came back negative. We will move forward with this the right way. My condolences,_

_SSA Donovan Irving_

He can’t hold back the sigh of disappointment that slips passed his lips. Susan looks up from her seat on the sofa. She places the bookmark on her page before closing her book and moving towards her husband. 

“Did Agent Irving get back to you yet?”

Robert turns the laptop so Susan can read the screen. She hums lightly, rubbing her husband’s shoulder. 

“We’re never going to find her.” He says, defeat lacing his words.

Susan tries not to be shocked. She’s seen him at his worst, comforting him through everything, yet he has never said anything like that. A frown takes over her face. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been eleven years, Susan. She’s not coming home.” The depth in his voice is something she had heard only a few times. He rarely let himself be this vulnerable in front of anyone, especially about this. She cups his chin with her hand, turning his face to hers. With a small peck on his cheek, she begins speaking. 

“You can’t give up on her, Robert. I know that little girl needs you. She hasn’t given up on you.” 

With that, she presses her lips onto his forehead. There are a lot of things in life that come and go, but the hope that Y/N is still out there and waiting to come home is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Lemme know what you think :)
> 
> If you have tumblr and want to be added to the tag list over there, my URL is @rae-is-typing. The tag list will be closed on January 31st, 2020.


	4. Homework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the last day of your junior year in high school. You are assigned summer homework for your LA class, and you get to work soon after school ends. Ashlynn helps you out, only for it to end in a screaming match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit discussions about manipulation, lying, gaslighting, and theft, and a very explicit screaming match. It also contains mentions of therapy, PTSD, abortions, miscarriages, and sex work. If that triggers you, don't read it.

Six weeks into talk therapy, and you’re improving slowly and steadily. It’s easier to get out of bed in the morning, talk to people, and focus in class.You and Ashlynn studied most days after school for the upcoming finals. After a long semester, and an even longer year, you are ready for your last summer as a high school student. 

You don’t bother dressing up; you have no one to impress. You’re left in a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top. You had brushed your hair out, letting it fall however if wanted to. Mascara coats your lashes, and your eyebrows are defined, but that’s because you don’t want to scare anyone. The sweet tang of fruit snacks fill your mouth as you lean on a counter in the kitchen, the sound of some talk show playing in the background.

“Last day as a junior!” Dad exclaims as he comes into the kitchen donning his usual mechanic coveralls. He wraps an arm around you with a grin, sporting his perfectly straight and pearly teeth. “Are you excited?” 

“I’m excited to be done with finals,” You deadpan, eating another few fruit snacks. “These finals have been kicking my ass.”

He snorts before noticing the brightly colored sugar balls in your hand. “Want me to make you some actual food?”

“Nah, I’m okay with these.” You say, tossing the last few fruit snacks in your mouth. You grab your school bag from the chair it sat, slinging it over your shoulder. “I’m leaving!” 

“Drive safe. Love you!” Your dad calls back.

“Love you too!”

The drive to school is short and the parking lot is nearly empty. You smile to yourself. The last day of school is always like this, and quite frankly, you can’t blame the other students. If you didn’t have your finals and the meeting with your LA teacher, you wouldn’t have bothered showing up either. 

The halls are half empty with the occasional loud bout of laughter or conversation between two friends. You pull the door to your first class of the day open, sat in your normal seat, and placed your bag on the desk. The bell rang and your teacher began greeting the students.

You aren’t paying attention. Your phone serves as a nice distraction as you slouch in your seat. There’s no point; you’re going to be called down to your LA class anyways. And soon enough, an office aid came in holding the telltale neon pink slip. They take the slip to the teacher. She only nods and the student aid hands you the slip on their way out of the room. 

Meeting in classroom 6, leave immediately 

You made eye contact with your teacher, holding up the note. She nods, going back to what she had started on the computer. You grabbed your bag and left the classroom. 

You walk to your LA teacher, Mr. Galloway's room to join a small group of other juniors and a few sophomores. Mr. Galloway stands when he notices you, making the rest of the group go silent. 

Mr. Galloway is an aging man, about sixty-seven years old with graying hair and kind green eyes. He speaks with conviction, but has a soft spot for his honors students, often allowing snacks and off topic conversations in the classroom when the standard classes are expected to stay on task or quiet for the entire period. He only allows the strongest writers in the class, as he wants to help strengthen their skills. 

“Alright, we’re all here.” He spoke, voice even and low. “We are meeting to discuss the summer homework for next year’s Honors LA class. If you aren’t interested, you know where the door is. I trust you can make your way back to your proper classes.”

Three students stood got up and left. 

“The rest of you are here because you have been recommended by your teachers or opted out of the college credit this year. The summer homework consists of a packet of one short story and an unedited and unrevised essay, as well as some general literacy questions. The short story is to be annotated and the essay should be revised and edited. Along with that, you will write either a report on a book or a five to ten page research paper on a topic I approve of. Any questions?”

“Why so much?” A sophomore asks. 

“This is a hard class. If you can do what I give you, you will succeed, as well as have the opportunity to gain four college credits paid for by the school district.” 

“Which books can we do the report on?” Ashlynn asked, leaning against a desk.

“There is a list with the packet. It includes: Wuthering Heights, Emma, Pride and Prejudice, East of Eden, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 1984, A Tale of Two Cities, and The Odyssey. For the research paper, you can do any topic as long as I approve of it. I will not approve of topics that are illegal or inappropriate for school. You must have the book chosen by the end of the day. I have limited copies of each, so I recommend you choose fast. As for the research paper, you will need to get the topic approved before I leave today at 4:00. The packets are by the door. I will also send out a PDF of the packet, book list, and research paper requirements to your school emails for those of you who struggle to keep track of physical copies of things.” Mr. Golloway’s modulated voice took over the classroom as he made direct eye contact with Ashlynn with a small smirk on his face. 

“Why do you have to attack me like that?” Ashlynn asks, voice going from flat to playfully offended in a second. 

“Get back to your classes. I will see you all later today.” Mr. Galloway sits back at his desk, typing at his computer. You follow the rest of the students as they leave the classroom, each grabbing a packet. 

“What are you going to do for homework?” Ashlynn asks, falling in step next to you in the empty hall. 

“I don’t know. I did a report on 1984 last year, so I’m thinking about the research paper. I don’t know if I want it to have a working thesis or if I should write an expository essay.” You brush a few stray locks of hair back with your free hand, turning your gaze to your friend. “What about you?”

“I’m gonna write a book report. Emma is one of my favorite classics.” She starts before slapping your arm. “You should write about true crime! Like go over a specific case and present the most likely theory." 

"That's a good idea, actually." You say, smiling at her.

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"You don't usually have good ideas. There's a reason Mr. Galloway won't let you go near the copier." 

"Okay, so I misplaced a few copies-"

"You lost 130 copies, Ash." 

"It was an accident. That was so long ago, too." 

"It happened last month?" 

"Yeah, that's like last year." You roll your eyes at her, pushing her away from you gently.

"No, no, no!" She laughs. "Write about how Bush orchestrated 9/11!"

"I'm going back to class," You say, walking in the opposite direction as Ashlynn. 

"You're no fun!" She calls after you.

\------

Later that day, you’re back in Mr. Galloway’s class. You sit down by Ashlynn, using the empty desk in front of you as a footrest as you pull the packet out of your bag.

"Good morning. Welcome to the last class of the year." Mr. Galloway greets the class. A few greetings are thrown back at him. The class was small, about 7 juniors are left as the seniors in the school had graduated the week prior. 

"I called most of you in this morning to go over the AP summer homework for next year. This class period is a wonderful time to go over the book list or think of a topic to research. Use your time wisely. I forgot to mention that the deadline for the report or the paper is August first anytime before midnight. It will be in the google classroom for this year. The packet should be handed in on the first day of school. If you fail to turn in the essay on time, you will not be registered in the class in the fall. I cannot stress this enough: use your time wisely. You are free to do whatever you will," With his final words, he sits back down at his desk, adjusting his pine air freshener. You pull out your phone, googling unsolved crimes.

Familiar names appeared as a result: JonBenet, Tupac, Jack the Ripper, Madeleine McCann, the Beaumont children, and many more. A video came up in your search.

Lost but Not Forgotten: Y/N Falconer-Downey's Story

You watch the video with headphones, and take notes on a loose piece of paper. The case is of a six-year-old girl disappearing from a beach. She went missing on her sixth birthday. Her father, Robert Downey Jr., had seen her run toward someone, then he saw nothing of her as he ran to catch her. In those few seconds, someone had either grabbed her, or she got lost. Since no one had found her while searching, the police and FBI assumed she was kidnapped. Nothing ever came of their searches and she was presumed dead on April 2, 2013. People still search for her, she is still alive the Falconer's and Downey's hearts. They still make sure there is a room for her in each of the houses their houses. Even though Deborah and Robert are split up, they still meet every year at her memorial to leave flowers and spend some time remembering her. 

You write the topic down: _An informative research essay on Y/N Falconer-Downey’s disappearance, what it did to the family, and how RDJ’s fame has impacted the case._

You go to Mr. Galloway's desk, showing him the paper you wrote on. 

"This should be interesting.” He nodded, handing back the paper. “The requirements for MLA formatting and the content are in the packet you grabbed this morning." 

\------

The day ended well. Your last final was a heavy weight lifted off your shoulders, and you're ready to relax- god knows you needed it. You feel like you can breathe after two months of stress and hell. All you have to do now is the summer homework, then you can enjoy the rest of your break. You’re keen to do good in the class, get the dual credit, and worry about less essays in college. English and writing are quickly becoming your best subjects. 

But you learned your lesson last year. You forgot about the homework until the reminder you had put in your phone went off the day before the written part of the homework was due. You spent that morning speed-reading 1984 and bull-shitting a report on it, barely editing it and barely meeting the word requirement. You got in the class and finished with a solid A for both semesters. If you did that and did well in the class, you could write a damn good research paper in a few days. The packet would come after. 

So, with your notebook was spread out in front of you and your laptop sitting next to it, you begin the prewrite and research. 

Y/N Y/M/N Falconer-Downey was born on 3/30/2000, 3’1 and 30 pounds when she disappeared, y/e/c eyes, y/h/c hair pulled in an updo, wearing a sapphire blue swimsuit with silver details. Disappeared on 3/30/2006. 

_Poor thing, going missing on her sixth birthday. Her poor parents, fuck._ You think to yourself. 

You purse your lips. _What would she look like now?_

You google _Y/N Falconer-Downey now_

A twitter hashtag came up, as did a few anniversary articles and revamped theories about the kidnapping. You changed the search to Y/N Falconer-Downey 2017. The same things came as a result, as did an article about someone named Kyra Claudius. 

You frown. Nothing. Well, nothing you’re looking for.

You rub your temples, reaching for the phone you had abandoned hours earlier. Unlocking it, you pull up Snapchat.

_You: You busy?_

_Ash: Nah wassup b?_

You call her, put the phone on speaker, and set it on your desk. 

“Hello?” Her distorted voice rings through your phone’s shitty speaker. 

“Hey, can you do me a favor?" 

“What’s up?"

“Remember when you wanted to know what you would look like when you're 100 years old?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do that but with Y/N Downey? I’ll send you a few photos.”

“Sure. Why do you need them?”

“I’m working on my research paper and there are no pictures of what she would look like now. All I’m seeing are pics of this girl named Kyra Claudius.”

“We just got outta school and you’re already doing homework?”

“Yeah, I want to get this done. And I want it to be good. I'm not amazing at academic writing,”

“That’s fair. I’ll get those done for you. Later!” She said the last part in a singsong voice.

“Thanks man,” You say and hang up after Ashlynn gives a hum of acknowledgement. 

You stand, lifting your arms above your head to stretch and felt your back crack. “I’m only seventeen, what the fuck?” You groan, throwing your head back a little bit.

You sit back down, and dove back into work. Another more detailed missing persons report came up. 

_Y/N has multiple identifying characteristics, including three birthmarks and a small malformation on her right ear. One birthmark is under her malformed ear, another is on her rib cage and the last is on the top of her left foot. She also has a scar above her left eyebrow. If you have any information that could lead to the return of Y/N, please contact the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children at 1-800-843-5678._

You brought your hand up to your ear, picking at the place where your helix fused with the rest of your ear. You used to do it all the time; it would calm you down a lot when you were little, although your mother hated when you did it. She was always afraid you would hurt yourself- at least that’s what she said. She didn’t care if you were rough housing outside, playing with people at the park who were twice your size or anything of that nature. But, she always cared if you hurt yourself, whether it was intentional or unintentional. Not in a ‘sweetie, I’m so happy you’re okay. Let me help you clean up,’ but in a ‘you’re hurting the family when you hurt yourself! Don’t you dare tear us apart’ kinda way. 

You shake your head, feeling your ribs too. You put your hand over the birthmark and old scars, cradling them in a way. No one is allowed to see that part of you. Not only do your birthmarks are weird, the one of your ribs are riddled with scars from past decisions. 

Your next search is Kyra Claudius and Y/N downey. An article from June of 2016 came up in less than a second. 

_**Veil Lifted: Kyra Claudius** _

_This is the story of a young woman who’s neuroticism and ability to lie and influence aided her in exploiting the Downeys and manipulating a nation. Looks and charisma can only get you so far, especially when you can’t keep a web of lies consistent. This is the story of Kyra Claudius._

You flip the notebook you had been using to a blank page, pen in hand, and ready to take some notes. 

_Kyra Claudius was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and grew up in St. Louis, Missouri. She had a rough upbringing with an alcoholic mother and a father that was never home. She was placed in the foster system along with her three younger siblings, two brothers and a sister at the age of ten By the age of twelve, she had been in five foster homes due to violent behaviors and stealing._

_Claudius dropped out of high school after finishing her freshman year. It is unclear, but some sources have claimed she began dancing at strip clubs in the inner city, while others state she became a drug runner for a gang. There is little information on what happened during the years leading up to the hoax, but some sources have claimed she had gotten pregnant multiple times, and subsequently had miscarriages or abortions._

Your brows shot up. Goddamn. You write the information down nonetheless.

_In the beginning of 2013, Claudius attended a press event promoting Iron Man 3. During that event, she proclaimed herself to be Y/N Downey, Robert Downey Jr.’s missing daughter. At the time, Y/N would have twelve, almost thirteen. Claudius was seventeen years old and looked the part. Multiple bystanders called her bluff, forcing her out of the event. It is also unclear why Claudius went to this specific press event, as it was in Kansas City, almost 250 miles from St. Louis, where she still resided._

_On March thirtieth, 2014, Claudius flew to Los Angeles, and hitchhiked to Y/N Falconer Downey’s grave. There, she waited until the family arrived. She claimed to be Y/N, showing off various birth marks, old scars, and her “malformed” ear. She had the looks, too. Y/H/C hair, Y/E/C eyes, a heart shaped face, and a similar complexion to that of Robert._

_Needless to say, the family was skeptical at first. However, she began to tell the family stories of the group that kidnapped her. Tales of rape, gang violence, and a group of girls being killed in front of her made the family sympathetic enough to take her to the hospital. After that visit, she was taken home, and the media frenzy ensued._

_Interviews, press conferences, paparazzi, everyone and everything imaginable took over their lives for the next eight weeks. It was picture perfect. However, behind the scenes, things were taking a dark turn. Indio Downey was arrested for possession of cocaine, Susan refused to let Claudius anywhere near her young children, and Robert was spending most of his time filming. That left Claudius with Deborah._

_After the fact, Deborah says “She was amazing at first, always wanting to spend time together and go out, she never wanted to be at home. But later on, I felt like I had to walk on eggshells around her. If one thing was off, it was the end of the world,”_

_Feeling as though you have to walk on eggshells around an individual is a classic sign of narcissistic abuse. This, coupled with statements from both Robert and Indio, we can easily tell that Claudius had symptoms and behaviors that line up with narcissists. The family claims that Claudius would change the story each time the topic came up, she also had no interest in pursuing legal action against her so-called captors. She did, however, file a police report._

_In late 2014, Claudius’s behavior became too much for the family to handle. Her abhorrent behavior coupled with ever changing stories made the truth slowly came out. Everything ended when Claudius was forced to take a DNA test._

_After her DNA was taken in for testing, she skipped town, taking over $20,000 from Deborah. She was apprehended the same day the test came back negative. She was not Y/N Falconer-Downey. In fact, she had sewn her ear shut to resemble the malformation that Y/N was born with. She also had all of the birthmarks tattooed by an unnamed artist in St. Louis._

_The trial was held in December, 2015. Claudius was charged with theft, fraud, and filing a false police report. She was sentenced to fifteen years in a Missouri mental hospital._

_Some think that Kyra Claudius got off easy, and some think that she got what she deserved. Yet, one thing remains the same. Y/N Falconer-Downey is still missing._

Jesus Christ, like that family hadn’t been through enough already. Sighing, you close your laptop. There’s too much to unpack and you're ready to throw the damn suitcase away. You stretch, grabbing a random book from your small stack of favorites and go to sit in the living room to wait for Ashlynn.

You don’t hear the footsteps rushing to the door, but you do hear frantic pounding on your door. You jump, nearly falling off the couch. Another series of raps on your door makes you stumble off the couch and to your front door. 

“Ashlynn, hey-” you're cut off by your best friend coming in, slamming the door and shoving a photo in your face. 

“Its fucking you.”

“What?” You ask, taking the paper from her hands.

“Those pictures you sent me look exactly like you. I thought you sent the wrong ones, so I found more and ran a sequence them. Its you. It looks just like you.”

“What the fuck? No they don’t.” You snap, looking up at her with furrowed brows. 

“Have you looked in the mirror lately? This is you, this is fucking you. Y/N I swear to god, this is you.” Ashlynn emphasizes her words with wild gestures.

“This isn’t me, Ash!"

“Yes it fucking is. Look! Same eyes, same eyebrows, bone structure, slap some crippling anxiety and depression on this bitch, and it’s you!”

“Ashlynn, there is no way I am Y/N Falconer-Downey.”

“Think about it a little bit. Same name, same birthday, same fucked up ear, and same fucking face! Do I need to go on here?" She says, voice impenetrable. 

“Yes! All of that could be a coincidence.” You offer an exaggerated shrug.

“Having the same face is not a coincidence.” She deadpans.

"I am not missing, I was not kidnapped. I cannot not be her."

“Yes you can! You have the same bone structure, same face, and same messed up ear. One alone, sure, fine, coincidence, whatever. All of them? Having the same everything isn't common enough for it to be a coincidence. And if you are the missing girl, the Downey’s deserve to know.”

“And if I’m not?”

“And if you are?”

“And if I’m _not_?”

“We’re getting nowhere with this,” Ashlynn snapped.

“You’re insinuating my parents kidnapped me!” You yell.

"I'm insinuating that there is a possibility that you are Y/N Downey.” She retorts, beginning to pace in your living room, running her hands through her long hair before turning back to you. “Think about it. You were adopted when you were six. She was kidnapped when she was six. You have the same fucked up ear, the same birthday, the same fucking name, and face! Let's use our smart people brains and put this shit together. How rare are fucked up ears?"

“Oh, my god. You’re crazy. I’m not her!” 

“You keep saying that! Why do you think you aren’t her?” 

“Because my parents didn’t fucking kidnap me! I was adopted!”

"She was taken from Hawaii. You were adopted from Hawaii."

"So who kidnapped her? She was probably trafficked, or sold, or something. As fucked up as it is, pedos would pay a lot for a kid, especially a famous one!"

"I'm only presenting the facts, Y/N!" Ashlynn runs a hand through her long dark brown hair again, staring at you with her decisive brown eyes. "You look like her aged up photo with the same birthmarks and same ear. You can't say there isn't a case here. The physical similarity is enough to go to the police-"

"Go to the police!?" You yell. “Are you crazy?”

"Shhhhhhhh! Someone will hear us and the police will be called for different, unproductive reasons."

"You don't-" Ashlynn shushed you aggressively. 

You take a deep breath, lowering your tone of voice to a harsh whisper. "You don't even know if I'm her. Shouldn't you get more evidence before you do anything drastic like going to the fucking police?"

"Yes! Great idea. Have you ever seen your adoption papers?" She asks. 

"You've seen yours?" You ask back.

"Yeah. Your mom keeps all her shit in the basement, let's go down there." Ashlynn made a move towards the stairs leading down to the basement.

"No! No no no nononono." You say, grabbing her shoulder and moving to block her way. "We are not going down there. I will die! My mother will kill me if she finds out that I misplaced her shit! You know exactly how she is with her files. You remember what happened last time. You sat through her two-hour rant before my dad got home to let you go and calm her down!"

"Well she's on call at work, right? We'll put everything back the way it was."

"She doesn't work that way! She will find out if things are off kilter by an iota! It is her fucking super power!"

"Look, I understand that you're scared, but if you are her, don't you think that the Downey's and the Falconer's deserve to know?" 

"I'm not her and we are not going down to the basement."

"If you aren't Y/N Downey, how do you explain the similarities? The same eyes, hair, fucking same everything?!" Ashlynn threw her hands in the air. 

"There are about seven other people on this fucking planet that would look like the grown up version of her!" You retort, keeping your arms crossed. 

"I don't like how it sounds either, okay! I sound like a fucking tweaker, I know." Ashlynn paused, holding your gaze. "But this-" she held up the printed off picture, gesturing between you and the photo "-cannot be ignored!"

"Yes, it can.” You moved forward and snatched the photo out of her hands. “It can be very easily ignored. wanna know how? Throw this in the trash and forget it ever existed." You tear the paper in half, crumple both pieces up and toss them in the bin.

"You asked me to do this!"

"I know! And I appreciate your help. You know I do, you're my best friend. And as my best friend, I am asking you to let it go."

"No."

“Well, we are not going down there and digging through my mom’s shit- she’d kill me!”

"Yes, we are. If you won't, I'll find them myself and take the blame for it." Ashlynn began marching to the stairs that led to the basement.

"Why do you care so much?"

"You know I want to go into detective work. If we do find something, it could solve an eleven year cold case and reunite a family. Doesn't that sound like a great reason to care?" Ashlynn crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. "Or are you like your mom?"

"Okay, do not talk about my mother like that. I don't care if she has a certain level of empathy or not. That is my mom that you are speaking about. Secondly, I do think that is a great motive, but I'm not a missing child. I was legally adopted by my parents that are not criminals."

"Glad you think so, let's go prove it." Ashlynn pushes passed you again, making her way to the stairwell that leads to the basement. You grab her wrist and pull her back. 

“Ashlynn, please. Please, let it go.” 

Ashlynn rips her hand back. “Why do you want me to let it go? I’m trying to help a bunch of people right now! If I’m right, and you were kidnapped, isn’t it better to take the information that we have to the police and reunite a family? Y’know give justice and closure to the Downey’s and the Falconer’s and justice for the potential victim?”

You hold her penetrating gaze with ease. “We aren’t going to the basement.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Fine! Yes, I think they deserve closure and justice, but at what cost? you're implying that I was kidnapped off a beach when I was six? Don’t you think I would remember that?” You snap. 

“Maybe! The memory begins to develop around 4. I remember my biological family, and I was adopted when I was five. I think that it’s perfectly reasonable to assume you’d remember being kidnapped of all things!” 

You pause for a second, fuming with your voice becoming hoarse and throat becoming scratchy. But the more you stop to think, the more it makes sense. Everything seemed to click. The dreams of the man, the woman and the little boy. Being grabbed, the PTSD, something being forced in your mouth. Mom picking you up off of the sandy ground. Your heart rate picked up even more, as did your breathing.

“Get out.” 

“Excuse me?”

Your jaw clenches. “Get out.”

“Y/N, I’m trying to help you, here-” 

“Get the fuck out of my house and the fuck off of my property.” You say, jaw still clenched. You point to the entrance. “There’s the door. You’re not wrecking my family because of some stupid fucking picture.”

“Y/N, please. This can lead to something huge.” She begs, turning to you fully. “Please listen a little longer…”

“No! Get the fuck out!”

Ashlynn finally relents, a cocktail of rejection, anger, and indignation filling her brown eyes. She turns, marches down the hall, and right out of your house. As soon as she’s out the door, you throw your head back and let out a frustrated groan. Stomping down the hall and to the door, you lock it.

Anger envelopes you. Your hands shake, your breathing is heavy, and you run your hands over your face and through your hair. How fucking dare she? How dare she come into your house and claim that your parents would even consider doing something like that? How fucking dare she?!

Your foot falls are muffled by the carpet on the floor as you pace with proverbial steam blowing out of your ears until something wrinkles under your foot. You step back, looking down at the floor. You pick it, unfold it, and smooth it out as well as you’re able to. It’s the aged up composite sketch.

The girl in the photo has Y/S/C skin, Y/H/C hair, and Y/E/C eyes. There is another picture off to the side of the girl of an ear. But it isn’t a regular, fully developed ear. Her ear is malformed. The curve at the top of her is fused with the part under it. The fusion is barely noticeable if you aren’t looking for it. You bite your lip, running a few fingers over your own ear. 

Crumpling up the paper, you decide this girl looks nothing like you. So she has a weird ear? So what she has the same skin color. Your hair is a few shades darker, and the eye color is off. She looks nothing like you. Not a bit.

Okay, you look similar, but that’s it.

You toss the paper into the bin next to the couch before lying down on the couch and returning to the book you had previously discarded.

Hours later, you’re still on the couch. However, the encounter with Ashlynn hasn’t left your mind. Now that you’re calmer, you can see where she had been coming from. But what she implied is outrageous. There is no fucking way that you’re a missing person. 

The sound of a car pulling in catches your attention. Your dad steps out of the car, work bag in hand. He opens the front door within the minute, and immediately notices your off mood.

“What’s up kiddo? Summer break boring already?” He asks, closing the door.

You cough out what was meant to be a sigh, your throat still scratchy. “Nothing.”

“Right. Can I sit?” He asks, gesturing to the loveseat you’re sprawled on. You push yourself up with a huff, letting him take over the other half of the loveseat. “So what’s eatin’ ya?”

“Nothing,”

“Okay. Well, there are a few things that need to be taken care of at the shop. Wanna help your old man get a car fixed?” He asks, meeting your drained gaze with calm blue eyes.

“Sure,” You say. This is his way of comforting you. He likes to stay close to ensure your safety, but he never forces you talk any more than you want to. He used to ask questions until you snapped and told him to leave you alone, or you broke down crying. 

You both get off the couch. He waits by the door while you put on appropriate clothes for the shop. Once your dressed in a set of coveralls and tennis shoes, you two head out. 

The shop is small, fitting around three cars at a time. It's musty, often smelling like dust or old tools. Music plays in the background while the mechanics work. While your father is a mechanic, he often handles the business side of things, letting Erik man the shop and the hands-on part of the business. There are times where he gets on the floor for especially busy times. However, he brings you in after hours to teach you a few things about either running the business or fixing cars, kinda like he is now. 

Once there, you follow him onto the floor. He hands you a pair of gloves and goggles before telling you to grab a few tools. He takes you to a white 2001 Subaru Legacy with a couple royally screwed up rims. On one tire, the rim is almost bent in half, and the other is in worse conditions. 

Your dad has you change one of the tires, something you've done a million times. When your done with that, you're instructed to grab a black duffle bag with a variety of tools.

"The belt for the power steering is wrecked, and your going to change it." He says, opening the hood of the car.

“Okay. How do I do that?” You ask, looking at your dad expectantly. 

“The new belt is in the bag. Get that out then get out the wrench that’ll remove the bolts of the power steering pump.” You lean over the engine so you get a better look at the power steering pump. You grab the proper wrench and the new belt. You take off the bolts with no issue before turning to your dad. 

"Great job. Now, you're going to remove the old belt. All you have to do is pull it out."

You nod, tugging at the old belt until it came out of the pulleys. It was mangled. The sides are torn up, the belt itself is covered in grease and other car muck. 

"Throw that on the counter, we'll throw it out when we're done." Your dad instructs. You comply, laying it on the nearby counter. 

"You have to replace the belt now, this part gets kinda tricky, so follow my directions."

"K,"

"The first thing you wanna do is place the angled part of the pump on the pulley groove," He explains, pointing at the pump.You let him guide your arm to the correct spot. "There you go. Now, take a screwdriver and pull the pump away from the mount." 

You do as he says, pulling the pump away with a screwdriver until the pump has enough tension on the belt for you to slide it in. After that, your dad instructs you replace the bolts. 

"Great job, kiddo." He praises, throwing an arm around your shoulder. "I'll test the steering. Can you throw out the old belt please?" 

You smile at the praise before following his last direction. 

The rest of the time at the shop is spent fixing up older cars in your dad’s collection. He has an array of classics he never drives, but likes to keep tabs on. You don’t acknowledge why you were upset when he got home, and you would have it no other way.

\------

“Your dad told me you were upset, what happened?”

You try not to sigh as you turn off the water you’re washing dishes in. The difference between your mother and father is the simple fact that your mom isn’t the type of person to let things be. There is no lying to her. 

“Ash and I got into a fight.”

She hums, grabbing a clean towel to dry the dishes with. “About what?”

There is no way you can tell her the truth about the actual fight. Telling your mom your best friend thinks she kidnapped you would be disastrous. “Petty high school shit.” 

She dries the dishes while nodding. “Don’t let petty high school shit ruin a decade long friendship, honey.”

You stay silent, only nodding at her words. But Ashlynn is wrong, so you’ll both move in from this and keep being friends after she admits she got it wrong.

After completing the dishes, you go to bed early. Of course, you don’t mean go to sleep early because you barely sleep as it is. Lying in bed with headphones on, you stare at the ceiling with a blank stare and an equally blank mind. Classical music plays in your ears, soft and unobtrusive. 

_This is fucking you_

_Having the same face is not a coincidence_

You roll onto your side, one arm stuck under your pillow as the other pulls the blanket over your head in an attempt to rid your mind of Ashlynn’s voice. Instead you think of the session with Dr. Levy, the myriad news reports you listened to, and the case files. 

_Robert claims she ran towards a dog._

You remember the dog. An Akita that looks like Lear with brown and white fur and a wagging tail. 

_Y/N has multiple identifying characteristics, including three birthmarks and a small malformation on her right ear._

You have three birthmarks, and a fucked up ear, and all of your birthmarks line up to hers. 

Last of all, the only difference between you and the composite photo is the hair and eyes. Your hair is a different shade and style, and your eyes a little darker than the composite’s. Other than the different shades, it looks like the photo was a bad selfie you had taken. 

A rock of fear sits in your stomach. Maybe you are missing? 

The session with the specialist pops in your mind again. The PTSD would make sense if that is the case, so would the memories of being grabbed while petting a dog, and the memories of people that look eerily familiar. 

But you can’t be missing. 

You were adopted from Hawaii near your sixth birthday and you were brought up in rural Washington by a mechanic and a doctor. You cannot be a missing person. Unless they kidnapped you…

Sitting up with the blankets around your legs, you shake your head. No, that’s wild. There is no way they would get away with that, not in this day and age. You need documentation for everything. You have a birth certificate, social security card, and even a driver’s license. You couldn’t have gotten those without proper documentation. Granted, you haven’t seen any of your documents because of your mom’s neuroticism, but the point still stands. 

You sigh softly, running a hand through your messy hair. Ashlynn was right about one thing. You have to find your adoption papers.


	5. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your mom’s neurotic hoarding has its advantages and disadvantages. Luckily for you, you find what you’re looking for. Luckily for Robert and Deborah, there may have been a break in the case…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Anxiety, panic attack, swearing, calling the NCMEC

Asking your parents for your adoption papers wasn’t an option. Neither was looking for them while they were home. Luckily for you, they were leaving for their annual trip to Maine that morning. 

Mom paces around the living room, adjusting things, wiping invisible crumbs off of the couch and end tables as you watch from your place on your favorite chair. It’s strange not seeing her in a blouse with slacks and a white coat covering it. Her fawn brown hair is tied into a ponytail sitting at the top of her head. She’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt with birkenstocks; easy and practical. Dad is presumably upstairs, doing some last minute packing. 

“Your father, I swear,” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Jason!”

“What?” His muffled voice rings through the living room. 

“Babe, we need to leave in the next twenty minutes to catch our flight.” 

“I know!”

Usually, you’d find this interaction amusing. They always do this before a trip, even if it is something as simple as a day trip to Seattle. Mom is prepared for everything at least a few days in advance, and your dad gets things done at the very last second. But now, after your fight with Ash, you aren’t sure what to think or how to feel about your relationship with them. 

There’s one part of you that sees where she is coming from. You looked like the composite, what you remembered with the specialist, and you have the same birthmarks and malformed ear. The other, much larger part of you thinks that what she did was absolutely absurd and is grounds for ghosting her for a few more days until you’re both ready to talk. That small part of you is taking over. It’s hard to be around them. They make you nervous. Even now, sitting on the couch, waiting for them to leave, makes you want to shrivel up and die.

Your dad comes downstairs with a suitcase a few minutes later in jeans and a t-shirt. He gives mom a smile and a peck on the lips with a sheepish apology. She rolls her eyes, taking his suitcase out to the car. 

Your dad turns to you with the same smile. “Hey, kiddo. You sure you’re gonna be okay? You’ve been off the last few days.”

You shrug, head resting on your arm. “I’ll be fine. Always am,” 

His smile never falters. “I know. But if you want one of us to stay…”

You shake your head. The need for them to go only grows as time goes on. Finding your adoption papers is the only way to prove you weren’t kidnapped. You need them to go, sooner rather than later.

“Alright kid.” He opens his arms, gesturing for you to stand. 

You raise your brows. 

“Don’t leave me hanging, give your dad a hug.” He says, feigning exasperation. 

You force a sound of amusement to play off your behavior while getting up tp to hug him. Truth is, you don’t want to touch either of them, not until this is cleared up. Call it a defense mechanism, but the need to feel safe trumps anything. So you keep the hug shorter than usual. 

Mom comes in just as you pull away. A smile replaces her annoyed expression, and she goes in for her own hug. 

“Alright, Y/N.” She says, squeezing you. “You know the rules, no drugs, no alcohol, no parties, no one over but Ashlynn, Erik or Carlos will check in on you, and call us once a day.”

“Gotcha.” You nod, pulling away. 

“But for the love of god, if you are going to do drugs or alcohol, be responsible about it. You’re not allowed to give yourself alcohol poisoning when I’m not here to treat you.”

Dad laughs at mom’s claims. A smile tugs at your mouth. 

“No alcohol poisoning, promise.”

You and your parents share goodbyes before they drive off. You watch from the window, the early morning sunlight making your eyes water. If they came back and saw what you were about to do, there would be absolute hell to pay. 

After thirty minutes of staring at your driveway, you push yourself off of the sofa. The hallway seems longer than it ever has. A dark wooden door stares at you daring you to make your move. 

With shaking hands, you twist the gold knob. It creaks open as you step back. Concrete stairs lead to a dark pit, a gust of cold air hits you in the face, making you wince. You hold your breath as your bare foot meets the cold concrete. You pause on the first step, clutching the rail next to it with a vise grip. Everything in you is telling you to stop, screaming at you, calling to you to rethink your decisions. You ignore it, take a deep breath, and continue your journey down the stairs. 

Once you get to the bottom, you flip on the switch. The overhead lights flicker on, revealing a metal shelving unit with bins and drawers on the wall facing the stairs. Another unit rests along the wall parallel to the stairs. On the wall next to the unit, a bookshelf with all mom's old favorites stands proud. A small cherry red recliner is beside it, a throw blanket draped over it. The door to the backyard is next to it. Your mom used to come down here and read while you played outside in the backyard. 

The basement itself is concrete, with nothing but a small rug under the chair and the bookshelf to cover the cold ground. It's cold, spotless, and dry. Mom always keeps the basement the cleanest place in the house, and you have no idea why; no one but your family see it. Hell, you're only allowed down here when you want to go to the backyard. 

You press your nails into your palms, staring at the closest unit of shelves. The boxes are labelled with dates, starting all the way back in 1986, the year she graduated high school. That bins next to it are from her university days, and then her medical school and residency years. You scan the dates until you reach 2000. You rub your face with your hands, already overwhelmed with the idea of digging through myriad paper documents. 

The unit parallel to the stairs has 2000-2008, right before she began using her computer for everything. She had moved all of her most important documents from the bins to her computer, but never thought to destroy them. 

Luckily for you, you don't have to reach to the very top of the unit to get the bin for 2006. It's eye level with you, but you weren't expecting how heavy it was going to be. You let out a grunt as you almost drop it.

"Jesus." You huff, bending over to set it on the concrete. You sit down with it, the cold concrete chilling your legs. The bin is huge, easily the largest on the unit. The front of it is labelled with black sharpie in your mother's somehow neat handwriting.

You peel off the lid. There are file folders labelled with the months of the year. January is split into three, February takes up one, as does March. April takes up four file folders, and May is just a photo album. It looks like each month has a specific color. January has pink, February has white, and March has blue. You purse your lips, pulling out all of January's files. 

Thumbing through them takes as long as you'd expect, about half an hour. Nothing but medical bills reside in the bright pink file. But the bills aren't for either of your parents, they're for someone named Charlotte. 

Frowning, you move onto the next one from January. You find the same thing. The last file folder from January contains even more medical bills, and a death certificate. 

**Certification of Death**

Charlotte Louise Y/L/N 1/23/2006 Portland, Maine.  
Cause of death: Complications from treatment for Neuroblastoma

Your brows draw together. You had a sister? Almost had a sister? What the hell?

You keep the death certificate out, and put the rest of the files back into the bin. The white file folder is next. The majority of the girth are receipts from a liquor store. One day after the other, around the same time, one of them (most likely mom, dad throws his receipts away) went out and bought some type of booze. At the end, tucked away behind the overabundance of receipts, are incomplete divorce papers. Your mother’s signature is there, but not your father’s. 

Your heart pounds in your chest. They almost had a divorce? You almost had a sister?

Do you really know them? Their marriage is perfect in your eyes. They fight sometimes, but they always talk about it and make it up to one another before they go to bed. Both of your parents have time consuming jobs, but they always make time for you and for each other. You knew they had been separated close to your adoption date, but you had never guessed it had gone this far. 

Your hands shake even more as you leave out the divorce papers and place the white file folder where it had been once before. 

You pull out the bright blue file folder next. This one is about as thick as February's, but with more full sized papers in the back. 

There are more receipts for alcohol bought in a similar pattern as the month prior, but with more and more being purchased daily. Then it just stops. For three weeks, there are no receipts. You finally get to the real papers in the back. A small card and a plethora of packets are held together by a black and silver binder clip. 

You pull the binder clip off and skim the papers. The first thing you come to is what you’re looking for. 

_**Adopt-215 Adoption Order**  
1\. Your name:  
Emilia Gisele Y/L/N  
Jason Conrad Y/L/N  
Relationship to the child: Family friend  
Street Address: 104 E Brown St City: Portland State: ME Zip Code: 04101  
Daytime telephone number: (207)-775-1000  
Lawyer Contact information: N/A_

_2\. Child’s name after adoption  
First name: Y/N  
Middle name: Y/M/N  
Last name: Y/L/N  
Date of birth: 03/30/2000 Age: Six  
Place of birth: Knight’s Midwifery  
City: Honolulu State: HI Country: USA_

You laugh in relief. Thank God. This is everything you need. Hugging the papers to your chest, you feel tears of relief tugging behind your eyes. You’re okay. You’re not a missing person. You place the adoption papers on top of the divorce papers, wanting to thumb through the rest of the documents.

_**Certification of Birth**  
Child’s first name: Y/N Middle name: Y/M/N Last name: Y/L/N  
Sex: Female This birth: Single Birth date: March 30, 2000 Time: 2:23 AM  
City of Birth: Honolulu Island: Oahu Sate: Hawaii  
Full name of the father: Reese Dawson Baines  
Age of the father: 17 Birthplace of the father: Oregon, USA  
Occupation: Student Kind of business or industry: High School  
Full maiden name of the mother: Alexandra Elizabeth Beck  
Age of the mother: 16 Birthplace of the mother: Hawaii, USA  
Type of occupation outside of the home during pregnancy: Student_

Under all of the information is the signatures of your biological parents. Waves of relief slam into you. Your shoulders drop, as does your head. Laughter bubble up from your chest. How dumb of you to think that your parents actually would do something like that. Never. They would never.

The relief is soon replaced with guilt. How could you assume such things of your parents? God, you’re such a bad daughter… 

You secure the papers with the binder clip and slip them back into the bin. You do the same with the death certificate, and the incomplete divorce papers. Pressing the lid back on the bin, you’re able to forget about the guilt for a few moments. The relief is overwhelming, yet you’re still riddled with anxious energy. 

After getting up from the cold concrete, you manage to heft the cumbersome bin where it once was, label facing out and looking like it was never touched. Already dressed in shorts, a sports bra, and a tank top, you go back upstairs, slip on your running shoes, and start jogging to your favorite hiking trails. 

An hour and a half later, you’re drenched in sweat and ready for a shower. In the bathroom, you peel off the sweaty clothes, and get in the shower. It’s only then you realize that you’re out of body wash. You let out a frustrated sigh, and use a little bit of shampoo to wash yourself off. After getting out of the shower, you message your mom. 

_To: Mama <3  
Where’s the extra bosy wash?  
*body wash  
Sent: 9:29 AM_

_From: Mama <3  
In the closet in the master  
Sent: 9:45 AM_

_To: Mama <3  
Okay thank you  
Have you boarded yet?  
Sent: 9:46 AM_

_From: Mama <3  
We’re about to  
Sent: 9:48 AM_

_To: Mama <3  
Safe travels. Love you  
Sent: 9:50 AM_

You tuck your phone in the pocket of your sweats, climbing the stairs to your parents’ room. She had said the closet, so that meant her closet? Why would body wash be in her closet? Then again, why would she keep eleven year old receipts for alcohol? You try not to question what your mother does most of the time. 

Their room is spotless, as you expected it to be. The king size bed dressed in a baby blue spread sits on a large white rug. Two white end tables are on either side of it, and there’s a dresser on the far side of the room. The closet is next to the bathroom, also on the far side of the room. Their closet is a small walk-in, with half of it being taken over by your mother’s clothes, and the other half being taken over by your father’s. 

You grab the step ladder that is tucked away near the corner of the closet to look at the shelf above all of the clothes. Even with the ladder, you can barely see the top of the shelf. You reach out, groping and moving your hand around for the elusive body wash. 

Instead, your hand finds something velvet. You reach further, hitting a soft corner. Using your fingers, you pull the thing towards you. It’s a box about the size of a small trash can. You frown. You should definitely put this back. This could be something that could scar you emotionally for the rest of you life. It could be lube or some adult things. 

You open the box anyway. 

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. 

Sapphire blue fabric with faded and dingy silver lining lies on top of whatever else is in the box. The blue fabric is nylon and latex. You pull it out of the box, holding it up in front of you. A swimsuit. A child's swimsuit. You pause, a pang of confusion and anxiety tugging at your chest. Under the swimsuit are a few CDs, a folder you would use to keep school work in, and a purse. You step off the ladder, put it back in place, and leave the closet, taking the box and its contents to the hall with you. 

You set the box on the ground and crouch down to further examine the contents. You take the CDs out next. They are two in total, each in a standard plastic case. The discs themselves are labeled with 2006-2011 and 2012-2016 respectively. You set them aside, making a mental note to watch them later. 

The loose leaf paper is in fact not loose leaf paper, but news articles and various tabloids. Headlines like "Robert Downey Jr.'s six-year-old missing?" and "RDJ's daughter has been reported missing." "Catching up- Fifth anniversary of Y/N Downey's disappearance." More anxiety shoots through your veins. Why does she have these? Why is there a box of things from various years in their bedroom and not in the bins downstairs? Why did you think this was a good idea?

You put the tabloids back in their place, and finally move onto the purse. The purse is made of dark brown leather. It has one strap and a fading designer label. It's closed by a single clasp on the inside. You open it with ease to find a baggy sitting at the very top of the purse. Pulling out the flimsy plastic, you gasp. 

Hair. 

Y/H/C hair to be specific. What the fuck?

_Someone has your hair in their hands. Her voice is close to your ear. Words are being said to you, but you can't make them out. You don't want to._

_Large hands wrap around your hair, tugging your scalp in the process. You struggle and cry as the blade of a knife is set near the hair tie holding the up do together._

_Back and forth, back and forth, you feel each individual hair being ripped apart. No matter how much you struggle, no matter how much you cry, it won't stop. Soon, the hair you loved so much was gone and in a bag, then tossed into a much larger bag._

You drop the baggy and the purse, the rest of the contents spilling onto the floor. The weight of your own body is too much to handle. You fall on your bum, the carpet doing little to break your fall. Your hands fly to your hair. Threading your fingers through the wet ends, you cry out in relief. Your hands travel further up, gripping your roots as you resist the urge to tug at your hair.

You can't breathe.

Was that your mom? Why was she cutting off your hair? Why did she need to? 

The other contents of the purse were just as alarming as the hair. There are at least three pill bottles, maybe four, of sedatives or sleep enhancers that were mostly full, receipts for all the bottles you found, and two boarding passes for a nonstop flight to Maine from Hawaii, one with your name on it. But the most alarming thing was the knife on the receipt. Everything that someone would have needed for a day on the beach was in the bag. Everything that was on the receipt was in the bag. Everything but the knife. 

If she had grabbed you from the beach and used a knife to threaten you- no you would have remembered that with the specialist. 

What if she grabbed you and sawed off your hair to change your appearance? It wouldn't be the first time a kidnapper has had to change the appearance of their victim.

But she's your mother. She loves you. She adopted you- the papers are sitting in your basement for fucks sake! 

But what if? What if it is true? What if Ashlynn was right?

Why does your mom have news clippings of the disappearance of Y/N Falconer-Downey? She isn't a fan of true crime. She doesn't even know who the Black Dahlia is, or who Jon Benet Ramsey is. She hates Marvel, and has never watched a film with Robert Downey Jr. in it. Unless she was a secret fan?

You feel tears of fear and confusion tug at your eyes. What is happening? The pounding of your heart reverberates in your ears, making your head throb with it. A couple tears track down your face. You have trouble taking in steady breaths as you try to fend off the inevitable panic attack. Confusion and fear burn deep in your gut. What does all of this mean?

In the midst of your episode, you fail to hear the knocking at your door. It’s the vibrating of your phone that pulls you from your trance-like state. 

_From: Erik Rivera  
hey, I'm here to check on you. are you doing okay?  
sent: 10:40 AM_

Your heart stops. Staying as quiet as possible, you go to the stairs and peek at the living room. Unfortunately, the view of the window is obscured from your position on the stairs, and trying to explain why you're panicking to who's essentially the brother of your father does not sound like a viable option at this point. So, with shaking hands, you manage to type out a response. 

_To: Erik Rivera  
yeah, im about to shower. can you come back in a few hours?  
sent: 10:43 AM_

_From: Erik Rivera_  
of course.  
_sent: 10:42 AM_

With that, you shakily pull up one of the bookmarked reports you had been using for your research paper. 

_If you have any information that could lead to the return of Y/N, please contact the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children at 1-800-843-5678_

You copy and paste the number to your phone. Without giving yourself time to think your decision all the way through, you press call. 

It takes two rings for someone to pick up. 

“Center for missing and exploited children, this is James.” His voice is even and firm, grounding in a way.

“I-I think I have information on a missing child.” Your voice wavers as you speak. More tears come to your eyes as you clear your throat. 

“Alright.”

“She thinks she was kidnapped when she was little.” The words spill out of your mouth. Saying you’re the one that is potentially missing makes this real. Too real.

“She thinks?” He repeats.

“Yes. She thinks that she was kidnapped on her sixth birthday.” You confirm, voice firmer than before.

“Where does she think she was taken from?”

“A beach."

"Can you be more specific by any chance?" There is typing on the other end of the phone.

"Waikiki Beach." You push yourself off of the floor, steadying yourself with the wall. 

“Can you tell me something about her?”

“Like what?”

“What’s her name?”

“Y/N.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.” 

“Does she have any identifying characteristics? Birthmarks? Scars?”

“I- uh- she has a slightly malformed ear, and- and a few birthmarks.” You fumble, leaning on the wall behind you for support.

“Is Y/N in any immediate danger?”

“No, but the people she believes kidnapped her are going to be back in about a week, uh June sixteenth.” 

“Are they going to hurt her?” He asks, a new amount of concern rises in his voice. 

“They might if they find out she’s doing this.” That wasn’t a lie. If they found out that you were doing this, you probably would get kicked out and cut off from your family entirely.

“Who is Y/N? Is she with you?” He asks.

You pause for a second. Your heart drops, and you feel as though you’re about to be dipped in a vat of boiling oil. 

“I am Y/N.” There was no way that you were going to be able to keep the panic out of your voice. 

“Alright, Y/N. I need you to stay calm for me.” His tone switches in an instant, he’s gentle, concerned, and aimed to keep you calm enough to talk. “Where are you?”

“At home.” 

“Where do you live?”

“Langley, Washington. It’s on Whidbey Island,” You can hear him frantically typing. 

“Who do you live with.”

You pause again, unsure of how to answer that. They raised you. You’re their daughter. But your on the phone with a center that specializes in finding missing and exploited kids, one of which you very well may be.

“Y/N? Are you still there?” His concern grows with each word. 

“Yeah, sorry, I-I uh live with the people that might have... taken me.” You force out.

“And you’re not in any serious danger, correct?”

“I don’t- I don’t think so, no.” You stutter, running a hand over your still damp hair. There was more typing on his end.

“What do you mean by ‘might have taken me?’” He asks.

“I mean that I don’t know if it was actually them. They told me I was adopted, but I have a couple distant memories of someone… grabbing me? But I’m not sure if it was them, or if I’m actually a missing person…” You explain, fighting the urge to facepalm. Maybe you should have thought about what you were going to say before you called.

“Is there reason to believe that you weren’t adopted?” 

“The story is always changing. I found some things in their closet…” Your voice trails off.

“What did you find?”

“A child’s swimsuit, a plastic bag of hair, and sleeping pills.” 

Muffled shuffling fills your ear for a moment. “What does the swimsuit look like?” 

“It’s a brilliant blue with some faded silver designs…” 

“Alright, Y/N, I need you to do some things for me.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to send an email of a few recent pictures of yourself, and a few pictures of yourself from when you were younger. It would also be extremely helpful for you to send pictures of your birthmarks and ear, and the items you found.”

“How young should I be in the pictures?” You ask.

“As young as you can find.”

“Where do I send them?” You ask, putting him on speaker and switching to the notes app.

“james.regan@nationalcmec.org” He spells out the email. You repeat it, and he confirms it is correct. 

“You’ll hear from your local police department within the next day or so. We will run your photos against the ones in our database to find matches.”

“Thank you.” You choke.

“You’re welcome. Call 911 if there is an emergency,” He says before you hang up. 

You snap one big photo of the tabloids, CDs, swimsuit, and contents of the purse before you go back to the basement. You find the bin with all of the old photo albums and choose the one dated closest to the one of your adoption. With shaking hands and bad lighting, you snap a few photos of your six-year-old self. You take the pictures of your ear and birthmarks as well as you can, and add them all to a drafted email. The selfies with the best shot of your face are selected and saved to the draft as well. Composing the short email was difficult, but you got through it, and sent it without another thought. Overthinking was always your downfall in the past.

If Ashlynn was right, and you are missing, then the Falconers and the Downeys deserve to know. They've waited long enough.


	6. Catechize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detectives come to your house, then you’re taken to the police station. Meanwhile, Robert gets an email that changes everything.

It takes two days for detectives to knock on your door. 

They stand tall and proud in front of your anxiety ridden and sleep deprived frame like the devil standing above a sinner. One of them is a tall and stocky Hispanic man. He has a buzz cut with a five o'clock shadow and sunglasses. He’s in a long sleeve button-down and slacks with a gun strapped to his side. The woman next to him has a deep complexion. She’s the same height as the man and has a bob. She stands just as tall but gives you a deferential smile while the man has a blank face. 

“Good morning. Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” She asks. 

“Am I being detained?” You respond immediately, stepping back into your house.

“No.” She reassures you. “She reached out to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children yesterday, and we are following up on that.”

“Oh,” That did little to absolve your panic. “Alright. I am Y/N.”

“I’m Detective Amare Jefferson.” She and the man pull out badges, holding them to you at eye level. “This is my partner, Luis Cerillo. We are here because your physical appearance matched a case from eleven years ago.”

“Which case?” You ask, dreading the answer. 

“The disappearance of Y/N Falconer-Downey.” Detective Cerillo responds, putting his badge away. “We’d like to come in and ask a few questions.”

Your heart drops. “Okay, come in.”

The detectives step in, taking a look around your spotless living room as they do. 

“Let’s stay in this room.” Detective Cerillo says, pulling out a small black device reminiscent of a remote. 

“That’s fine, have a seat.” You say, sitting on your favorite chair. The detectives take a seat on the sofa. 

“We’ll be recording this and reintroducing ourselves as a formality.” Detective Jefferson explains. Cerillo presses a button. “I am Detective Amare Jefferson interviewing Y/N Y/L/N with Detective Luis Cerillo regarding her tip to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It is 8:49 AM on Monday, June twelfth, 2017.” 

You sit, feet firmly planted on the floor and hands folded in your lap. Should you have called a lawyer? Do you have any lawyers to call? 

“Tell us about your call to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.” Detective Jefferson says, ripping you from your train of thought. 

“What do you need to know?” You ask.

“What compelled you to make the call?”

“A few reasons.” You start, unsure of exactly where to begin. “I uh, I found a box in my parents’ closet with things that were really strange to me. That was the catalyst.”

“What happened before then?”

“I was researching the case, and I noticed the physical similarities. That, and my parents have always been secretive about my adoption, the story’s always changing.”

“When did that start?” 

“Ever since I started asking about it.”

“When did you notice the similarities?” Detective Cerillo cuts in. 

“My friend gave me an age progressed composite sketch.”

“And why did she do that for you?” He continues.

“Because I asked her to. The only pictures I was getting were of Kyra Claudius.”

“Do you still have the picture she gave to you?”

“No,”

“What other similarities do you have?” Detective Jefferson asks. 

“The birthmarks, and an underdeveloped ear,”

“Can we see them?”

“Yeah,” You say as Detective Jefferson moves to sit next to you on the couch. You move your hair away from your ear, exposing the fused helix and the birthmark under it. 

“And your other birthmarks?” She asks. 

You take a deep breath before lifting up your shirt. Neither of the detectives say anything as they see both the birthmark and the scars. They only hum and ask to see the one on your foot. 

“You said you remembered parts of the event. Tell us about that.”

“I was having these weird dreams that wouldn’t go away. I went to see my therapist and she referred me to a specialist. I was running towards a light-colored Akita. The dog walker was white with short hair. I was petting the dog and picked up from behind by my mom.” 

“When did the dreams start?”

“Late March. I think they were memories triggered when I was on Double Bluff.”

“You also said you found some items in your parents’ bedroom. Can we see those?”

“Sure, I need to go grab it.”

They nod. You run down to the hall to your bedroom to grab the box. The detectives are still seated. Detective Jefferson reaches for it and you hand it to her. She sets it in her lap and opens it. Detective Cerillo watches her as she inspects the content. 

“Have you watched these CDs?”

“Not yet.” You shake your head. She nods, setting them on the table next to her. 

“Do you have any documentation?” Detective Cerillo asks. 

“I found it yesterday.”

“Have you not seen it before then?”

“No, my mom never let me.”

“Can you show us that as well?”

“You’ll have to follow me, it’s in the basement.” You say, standing from the couch as you wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans. They follow suit, standing from their respective seats. Detective Cerillo picks up the voice recorder and follows you down the hall to the stairwell. 

Going down to the basement again made rancid bile sneak up your throat. The clicking of their work shoes resounds through the cold basement. They look around as you flip the switch. A brief look of surprise overtakes Detective Cerillo’s face for a split second before he reverts back to the stern look that sanctioned authority. Detective Jefferson doesn’t bat an eye to the large shelving units. 

“They’re over this way, in the 2006 bin.” You lead them to the unit. Before you’re able to grab it, Detective Cerillo takes it down and sets it on the floor. He strips off the lid, looks at the horde of file folders, and then back up at you. 

“They’re in the blue ones- the March folder. The documents are way in the back of it,” 

He takes out the bright blue folder and finds the documents. He hands Detective Jefferson your birth certificate while he looks over the adoption papers. They share a glance before replacing the papers in the folder and the folder in the bin. You frown. 

“Aren’t you supposed to take things into evidence or something?” You ask.

Detective Jefferson shakes her head. “Not yet. Do you have any photo albums dating when you were adopted?”

“Yeah,” You say, bending down. Pulling out the album from May, you continue. “I don’t have any in March or April which has always been weird to me, but these are the youngest pictures I have of myself,”

The two come together and flip through the photos. Glancing back at each other, they come to an understanding within seconds. 

“Does this door lead outside?” Detective Cerillo asks, gesturing to the door by the recliner. You nod, and he steps outside. 

“We are calling in Special Supervisory Donnovan Irving. He’s the head of this investigation.”

“Why is he coming?” You ask, placing the lid back on top of the bin, leaving the documents and the photo album the detectives looked at out. 

“He looks into the more likely cases in the states and the territories. Another branch in the FBI handles the international tips,” She explains, now holding the voice recorder. You nod at her words. Detective Cerillo comes in minutes later. 

“He’ll be here in an hour and a half. He was just in Seattle.” He says to his partner before turning to you. “You’re going to come back to the police station with us.”

You take a step back, heart rate spiking and stomach sinking. “Am I being detained now?”

Detective Cerillo shakes his head, a glint of frustration in his eyes. “No. The bureau wants to keep this case as quiet as possible.”

“Do I have to go?” You ask, hesitant.

“Yes.”

“But I’m not being arrested?” You press.

“No.”

You furrow your brows. “Alright.” 

Detective Cerillo takes the photo album with him. Anxiety sits like a rock in your stomach; heavy and cold. They’re calling in the lead on this case, the case you were merely writing about a week ago. Swallowing the bile rising in your throat again, you lock the back door and lead them back upstairs. They let you grab a book, keys, phone, and shoes before leaving. The car is a black four-door with leather interior. Detective Jefferson drives to the station while the radio plays in the background. The drive is short. You stare out the window at your beloved town for the duration of it. 

Langley is small, so it’s only natural that the police station is small. The outside is a deep taupe with lighter accents. The glass doors are crystal clear granting a glimpse of the calm station. You all but clutch the book to your chest like a lifeline as you’re led into the building through a side door. 

The inside of the building is also taupe. Taupe and sleepy. There are a few officers walking around, someone is on the phone, and another two officers are drinking out of mugs by the coffee maker. Only a couple of people other than the detectives pay you any mind. A young woman gives you a polite smile, which you return. An older man nods at you, a gesture you also return. 

Detective Cerillo opens the door to an office. A desk is in the center of the room, a chair behind it. It’s organized with a filing cabinet next to it. You look back at the two detectives. 

“Have a seat in front of the desk,” Detective Jefferson directs. You do as you’re told, hands around the book like it’s going to save your life. Glancing around the office, you take in the sight of a real office in a police station. You had only seen these in shows and movies. There are pictures along the walls, a mug on the desk, and something in the corner of the room you can’t make out. Tilting your head slightly, you furrow your brows. 

“That’s a camera,” Detective Cerillo informs. “We conduct interviews that we have to record, not dissimilar to what SSA Irving will be doing when he gets here.” 

You nod. “What time is he getting here?” 

“In an hour and fifteen minutes,” Detective Jefferson says, beginning to type on her computer. Detective Cerillo leaves the two of you alone, presumably tending to paperwork or other official detective business. Unsure of what else to do, you read the book you brought with you. 

It takes less time for the elusive Special Supervisory Agent Irving to come. 

Detective Jefferson left the room for minutes at a time more than once during the hour buffer. You had no idea what she was doing, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ease the anxiety by asking her either. However, the last time she leaves the room, she leaves the door open a crack. 

“You’re sure this is a strong case?” A rough male voice snaps, and even though it’s muffled, you can hear the frustration and belligerence.

“Yes.” Another disembodied voice says. 

“Irving, we just got back from another case exactly like this one. We debunked that within minutes. The ear was scar wax and the birthmarks were dirt and eyeshadow. Do you genuinely think that there is something that is different about this girl?” 

You tense up, toes curling and back stiffening. He sounds furious. 

He’s right, this is stupid. I never should have called…

“Agent Mitchell. Study the photo album once more please.”

You hear the angry man- Agent Mitchell- begin to say something, but the door to the room opening caught your undivided attention.

An old white man with salt and pepper hair, a wrinkled face, and electric blue eyes steps into the room. He dons a suit and tie, gun secured with a holster on his hip. He steps farther in the room and closes the door, holding his hand out to you. You take it, sure your sweaty palms are a dead giveaway for anxious you are.

"Miss Y/L/N. How are you?"

"I'm alright, thank you." Your voice is soft, almost brittle. Like any of this situation was alright. You clear your throat as he shakes your hand with a firm grip and analyzes your Y/E/C eyes. He lets go, pulling Detective Jefferson’s chair around her desk so he’s sitting in front of you. He’s so close, his knees are almost touching yours. But he sits tall, head held high as he starts to speak.

“I am Special Supervisory Agent Irving, I’m the lead agent on the kidnapping of Y/N Falconer-Downey. I come out to interview the more likely cases in the United States and the Territories. I highly suggest that you give up the act if this is fake.” The aging man says, voice booming in the small musty room. His suit is sharp, as is his stare. Intense blue eyes stare at you, analyzing your hair, posture, and mannerisms, tearing you apart completely.

“It’s not.” You say, shock from the abruptness seeping into your words. You stiffen even more as you hold his laser-esque gaze.  
“Are you familiar with Kyra Cladius?”

“Yeah, the name sounds familiar.” You shrug. 

“She went to great lengths to keep up the image of Y/N, even going as far as sewing her ear shut to recreate Y/N’s malformed ear."  
Your eyebrows shoot up. The article comes flooding back, the lying and stealing, abuse and rumors. The only thing on your mind has been the fact that your life is falling apart at the seams. But maybe you should have watched the documentary along with the article, maybe that would have made you think twice about jumping the gun. Despite the emotions filtering through your eyes, he continues.

"She got a few years in prison for faking a police report. So I’ll repeat myself: if you are faking this, come out about it now. You won’t get in trouble. We can all pack up and go home without wasting any more time or resources.” The coldness in his voice and the reminder of Kyra is a scare tactic, you know that, but it doesn’t make this any less terrifying.  
“I’m not faking this. I hope that I’m wrong.” You explain, voice wavering. You clutch the book in your hands, gripping the cover so tight your knuckles turn three shades lighter than your natural skin color. 

“Why is that?” He leans forward ever so slightly, deepening his gaze.

“Because if I’m right then my entire life is a lie.” Your voice breaks pathetically as you meet his eyes. For a second, the harsh blue softens into something gentler than the seasoned FBI agent sitting in front of you.

"Then why did you come?” His voice is soft, matching his eyes. And for a moment, you hear sympathy seep into his words.

Sighing deeply, you slouch back in your seat. “It- There’s too much to ignore, The physical similarities are there, everything I found in my basement and the closet. It’s just- all of it is too much,” 

“There’s something else.” He deduces.

“I’m sorry?” 

“You aren’t telling me everything.”

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me what you remember.” He all but demands.

You swallow thickly, again unsure of where to start. “Someone that looked like my adoptive mom picked me up off of a beach, and forced something down my throat.”

“What else?”

"People” You glance down, messing with your bookmark. “A man, a woman, and a kid, maybe middle school aged." The imagery of the sand and a small novelty umbrella come back to you, overwhelming for a second.

“And these were triggered by a day on the beach with your friend,” You look back up at him.

"Yeah, I uh went to a specialist afterwards to see if I could recollect it fully," You explain, wiping a shaking hand on your leg. He hums, studying you for a second longer than before. 

"Were you diagnosed with anything?"

"PTSD,"

"What did the people look like?"

You look down at the ground again, trying to think of a way to put their blurred bodies and faces into words. "The man- He had dark hair and dark eyes. I-I couldn’t make out his race, but he had lighter skin, and some wrinkles. His hair was really fluffy. The woman had light brownish blonde hair, I guess. She had very blue eyes. I couldn’t make out her race either. She did have thin brows, uhm 2003-ish style. Then the kid, a boy, looked like the woman and the man, so their son I think? He had the man’s face and the woman’s hair. He let me put the flag on the sandcastle," You say, rubbing your eyes lightly. It had been such a long day, your head is pounding and the redundant questions make you want to claw out your eyes. 

“Who are they?”

“Before I found the stuff, I thought they were my biological family, but now, I don’t know.” You shift uncomfortably for a moment and add “He even called me N/N. No one has called me N/N before.” You lift your eyes to meet the blue ones. He tilts his head to the side slightly, staring at you with an intensity that you hadn’t seen before

“What were you doing before she picked you up?”

“Petting a dog, I think it was a light-colored Akita, but I’m not sure.” You explain, shaking your head. He nods, rubbing his chin. 

“I need to see your birthmarks.” 

You repeat what you had done for the detectives earlier that day. You certainly don’t miss the small change in his eyes when he sees the scars littering your rib cage, but he says nothing. While gazing at your foot, he blindly pulls something out of his pocket.

“Wipe your birthmarks with that,” He says, handing a tiny plastic package to you. A baby wipe. You take it out of the package. The baby wipe is cold against your neck, and even colder at your ribs. 

“Show me your ears,” He demands. Once again, you repeat what you had done for the detectives earlier that day.

He stares at it, scrutinizing the details of your flesh, where your flesh connects and where it separates, what part developed normally, and what parts didn’t. He moves onto your ear that had developed properly, studying that one as closely as the other. After another minute, he returns to the malformed ear. 

A sudden presence near your ear makes you jerk back, away from Irving and to the end of the chair. He blinks, no emotion on his face.

“May I touch your ear?” He asks, hand where your face had been moments ago. 

“Uh, sure?” You respond, face twisted with confusion and shock as you move back to the center of the chair. It is impossible to stay relaxed while a strange old man gropes your earlobe, so you stiffen up and hold your breath. His touch is gentle as he feels the flattest part of the fused ear and the bumpier parts of your helix. Tilting his head back slightly, he hums lightly and takes his hands away. 

Instead of sitting back down, he leaves the room without another word.

Now completely alone, you slump forward. The tension you had accumulated leaves your body for a split second. But after that brief moment of rest, Agent Irving returns with three people you haven’t seen before. It’s a tight fit in the small room, the four adults stand shoulder-to-shoulder to fit. All of them are towering over you, even when you straighten your spine. One woman wears a bomber jacket with words you can’t make out. She’s holding a box in one hand and a camera in the other. The other woman has a pixie cut and is dressed similarly to the man and Agent Irving. The man’s face is sour, almost like he sucked down a liter of straight lemon juice before coming into the room. 

“Alright Miss Y/L/N. There are a few things that are going to happen. We are going to take a sample of your DNA for expedited testing. Due to the nature of this situation, we are going to take you to an undisclosed location on the other side of the island for your protection. You’ll be given half an hour at your place of residence to gather anything you may need. Agents Mitchell and Fallon will see you to that.” He gestures to the man and the woman next to him.

Your gaze volleys between the three of them. For your protection? You’re not in any danger... 

In a desperate attempt to keep the shock off your face, you run a hand through your hair and clear your throat. The man with the sour face sets his jaw, narrowing his eyes slightly at you. 

The next few hours are a blur. The woman with the bomber jacket snaps pictures of your birthmarks and ears. After that, she swabs a long q-tip in your mouth and places it in a plastic tube. Then she leaves. You go to a car with the Agents.

While gathering clothes and toiletries for the next two days, Agent Mitchell stood at your bedroom door with his arms crossed over his chest. The woman- Agent Fallon- stayed in the car. After fifteen minutes, he places a firm hand on your shoulder and tells you that the time is up. You don’t argue.

The drive is the worst part. 

Your mind races as you’re driven across the island. It’s silent, however, your thoughts thrum in your ears, almost manifesting themselves into the air. Your leg bounces up and down as you thread your fingers through the ends of your hair with shaking hands. Focusing on taking deep breaths has never been more difficult, nor has keeping tears from your eyes. You’re going to lose everything, you’re sure of it. If it comes back negative, your parents are going to hate you. If the DNA test comes back positive, then your parents aren’t really your parents. They adopted you illegally at best, and aided in a kidnapping at worst. 

What made you the most nervous was how long the drive was. On a normal day taking the main roads, it would take about thirty to forty-five minutes to get you across the island and all of the towns. Agent Fallon was definitely taking the long way, driving down dirt roads you had never seen, and making copious amounts of turns to get to said dirt roads. 

Eventually, the car rolls to a stop in front of a house in the middle of nowhere. It’s brown and sturdy. Trees, bushes, and flowers surround the building, making it appear to be a lovely cottage instead of a safe house. There are two patrol cars in front of the brown one story house. Agent Fallon gets out of the car to meet with the officers standing in front of the house. 

The sound of all the locks going down at once rips your attention from the window. Agent Mitchell turns around from his seat on the passenger’s side. His chocolate brown eyes are full of anger. His jaw is set, and his teeth clenched. With tense shoulders and snake eyes, he begins to speak. 

“Give it up, kid.” His voice is hostile, stern in a way you weren’t expecting. 

“What?” 

He sits up taller in his seat, brushing the jacket of his suit aside to reveal a holstered gun. You look at it, then at him. Your heart drops, and your breath catches in your throat. 

“We both know this is fake. There is a family hurting and waiting for their daughter, who is more likely dead than alive, to come home to them. Irving emails them each time a liar like you comes along. Do you have any idea what it does to them?” He spat, vitriol dripping from his words. Your left hand trails up the door with your head down, discreetly searching for the lock to get out of the car. Y/H/C hair falls like a curtain in front of your face, shielding your eyes from the Agent.

“The only thing you can do now is hope that no charges are pressed when the test comes back negative. What will your parents think of you after this?” 

An audible sob falls passed your lips. He was right. What are your parents going to think? They’re going to kill you when it comes back negative. They’ll let you stay for a month before kicking you out. Erik and Carlos will hate you. Throwing Ashlynn under the bus is not an option either, but knowing her, she’ll take the fall for all of it. But you went to the police and got the FBI involved, not her. 

He scoffs, unlocking the doors. “Next time, you should think about making rash decisions.” 

You throw open the door, stumbling out of the car, and getting as far away as you can from the pissed off Agent. You scrape at your cheeks and eyes trying to erase the evidence of tears or vulnerability. 

_Why did I come? What did I do? I want to go home, I want to take it back…_

Agent Fallon and the officers don’t seem to notice you or your distress, but if they do, they definitely don’t care. You lean against a tree, arm shielding your face from the rest of the world. Slowly, you sink to the ground, knees to your chest and hands over your teary eyes.

_I just wanna go home..._

\------

“Supercalifragilisticexpiali-nanos.” Robert sings, swaying his hips to the beat he created. Mark and Benedict broke down into laughter at his antics. He laughs along with them. These are his favorite times with the cast; messing around for the gag reel and the fans, and making his cast mates laugh. 

“Alright everyone,” One of the Russos calls out, chuckling. “Take five,” 

Mark claps Robert on the shoulder, laughing with him still. Each of their respective assistants hands them water, something to eat, or their phones. Gabriel, Robert’s assistant, has a grim look on his face when he meets him near the edge of the set. 

“What is it?”

Gabriel shifts, uncomfortable. “Sir, you uh, you have an email from Agent Irving.”

Robert’s mood shifts in an instant. His smile falters, eyes losing their “I’ll take care of it,” 

Gabriel nods and Robert walks off. He explains the situation to the Russos in hushed tones, ignoring the concerned looks from the crew and his co-stars. They allow him to take a couple hours to answer the email and collect his thoughts. He has been so lucky with the directors he has gotten in his career with Marvel. All of them have been more than understanding when it came to the case and the emails he gets from the Bureau. 

While he finds a private place, his cast mates frown; some in confusion, and some in mourning with their brother. Benedict looks between the Russos and Mark, trying to decipher the situation. Mark sighs, taking a sip of the cool water. 

“It’s Y/N.” 

“Who?” Benedict asks quietly, accent seeping into his words.

“H- Robert’s daughter, the one who… went missing.” Mark explains as best he can. 

Benedict nods, realization coming over him. A pang of sadness runs through him. Lord knows what he’d do if his own kids went missing, let alone missing with no leads for eleven years.

In a secluded corner of the set, Robert opens his laptop. Sure enough, there was an email from SSA Irving sitting in his inbox marked as urgent.

_Special Supervisory Agent Irving  
Subject: Case on Whidbey Island, Washington State_

_A teenager from Washington state called the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children a couple days ago. She provided pictures of herself at age six and at her current age, seventeen. She also provided pictures of a malformed ear and birthmarks. Earlier today, she was questioned at her place of residence and again at the police station by myself. The pictures of herself and her birthmarks and ear attached in the file._

_I believe that this is the strongest case we’ve ever had. Not only does she bare a striking resemblance to the photos the NCMEC has, she claims to have remembered aspects of the event that have not been mentioned in any official report. Things like Indio letting her put the flag on the sand castle, and that the dog was an Akita. She also said that she remembers being called N/N and that no one calls her N/N. I am feeling very hopeful that the DNA test will come back positive. We are conducting an investigation and will have more information should you want to know more. The results will be back in 60 hours at the latest._

_File attached_

_-SSA Donnovan Irving_

His heartbeat rises as he skims the email. A rush of emotions overtake him. Anxiety, hope, guilt, and sadness. Anxiety and hope for the prospective results, guilt for letting happen in the first place, and sadness from all of the past DNA test results. 

But if this girl remembers it… 

Neither him nor Deborah mentioned Indio letting you put the flag on the sandcastle. Neither of them had mentioned the breed of the dog, either, neither could make out the breed. All they said was that it was big and multi-colored. Robert had called her N/N in the press conferences, but that’s different than remembering. 

He clicks on the photos. 

The first is of a little girl. She has short and uneven Y/H/C hair, Y/E/C eyes, and is dressed in a small mechanics suit with pink lettering that said “Daddy’s little Mechanic!” She’s grinning in the photo, but her eyes are empty, void of all emotion. But that smile… it was just like N/N’s when she was little. The next photo is of a teenager with the same hair and eye color. Except, she had a face full of makeup and what look to be fake glasses hanging off her nose. There are two more pictures of the girl. One without makeup, and one with her natural hair in her face and a wide candid smile.

He doesn’t want to believe it. 

This girl, this teenager, looks just like the NCMEC estimated Y/N would look like when she was blossoming into adulthood.

Robert wants to vomit. His hands begin to shake as he looks through the final group of photos. He clicks through the birthmarks. Robert doesn’t miss the scars littered over the one on the girl’s rib cage. A shot of sympathy runs through him for a second while he looks more closely. But it was the exact birthmark, in the exact same spot. 

No. This had to be another elaborate hoax. 

He clicks to the last photo. Two ears, side by side. One was a baby’s- Y/N’s- after she was just born. The other is from someone older. They had a couple piercings below the helix. Sure enough, they were the same. 

His breath caught in his throat, and a smile grew on his face. Maybe this is it. Maybe after eleven years, he’ll get to hold his daughter again.

He doesn’t have time to think as another email from Irving popped into his inbox. 

_Special Supervisory Agent Irving  
Subject: Case on Whidbey Island, Washington State Investigation_

_Update: We searched the girl’s place of residence. We found some key pieces of evidence. Please look at the attachment to this email, it will shock you._

_File attached_

_-SSA Donnovan Irving ___

__Robert clicks on it without hesitation. The first image is of a faded sapphire blue swimsuit with a semblance of silver detailing across the waist. The next is a picture of a boarding pass with the name Y/N typed on it with faded ink._ _

__His heart soared. This is it! The swimsuit, the boarding pass. This is her! His baby is back. He laughs- he can’t help it._ _

__But his face falls as he remembers Claudius. She did the same thing. She faked her entire case. She abused Deborah, stole from her, and threatened her on multiple occasions. She faked the birthmarks and sewed her damn ear shut for fuck’s sake!_ _

__Closing his eyes, he leans back in his chair. He has to wait for the results of the DNA test to come back. People lie, DNA doesn’t._ _

__But if this test doesn’t come out positive, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do._ _

__“Good news?” A male voice makes his head snap up. Chris Evans stands near him, fake blood and dirt in his face. Robert clears his throat._ _

__“Case update.” Is all he says. Chris nods, placing a firm hand on Robert’s shoulder. The two men share a moment of comforting silence before being called back to their respective sets._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Lemme know what you think :)
> 
> PS. Asking me to update won't make me post new chapters any faster. I do appreciate the enthusiasm and the support, don't get me wrong. I update on Wednesdays.


	7. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The DNA test comes back

Agent Fallon left the premises almost immediately after she was done talking to the officers, leaving you Agent Mitchell. You had incessantly rubbed your tears away until your eyes burned. 

After your small episode, you had expected to be shown around the house, asked if you needed anything, or at least led into a bedroom. But Agent Mitchell wouldn't look at you, let alone talk to you. 

You wandered around the house with a half full suitcase, wondering if any of this was worth it. You haven’t been in this part of the island, and were ignorant to the fact that any sort of safe house was located. If anything, you assumed that everything of that nature would be located in Seattle, about thirty-five miles from where you are, maybe even more because you genuinely don’t know where this house is. You didn’t go on the bridge, and you didn’t take a ferry, but all of the scenery blurred together during the car ride.

Luckily for you, the house was a small manufactured home with four bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. You chose to settle in an empty room. There were three twin beds in the room, and that was it. No dressers, no other furniture, and no pictures. 

With a fruitless battle against more tears, you had chosen to curl up on the bed furthest away from the door. That first night, you cried yourself to sleep. 

That morning, you woke up with a throbbing head. After blindly searching for your phone, you got out of the rock hard bed in a panic. Then you spot your bag. It had been clearly rifled through. Clothes were unfolded and in different positions than you had packed them in. You searched the house for Agent Mitchell to no avail. All you saw were patrol cars sitting in the front of the house, almost obscured by the trees.

The days to come continued like the morning. 

Agent Mitchell disappeared off the face of the Earth as far as you’re concerned, your laptop and phone were taken without your consent or knowledge, and you have barely eaten anything. The kitchen was almost empty, save for frozen bread and peanut butter. You were able to choke down a couple pieces of thawed bread and two tablespoons of peanut butter before wanting to vomit. 

Erik and Carlos would be freaking out. Ashlynn, if she wasn’t still mad at you, would be blowing up your phone. Your parents (kidnappers?) would also be panicking. The Riveras were supposed to check in every day, and to them, it could look like you ran away. Of course, this situation was much worse.

The morning of the third day in the awful house is somewhat pleasant. The book you had been reading lies face down on the edge of the bed as you stared out the window to the yellowing grass of the backyard. Your hands rest behind your head, and your knees are curled towards your chest. Light and the sounds of birds chirping wafts into the room through the open window. You’re at ease for the first time in over two days. You’re relaxed, not shaking, and your breathing is steady, not coming in deep inhales or shallow pants.

Of course all that had to be ruined by Agent Mitchell throwing open the door to the room. 

The slamming of the cheap wood door reverberates throughout the entire house. You jump, putting one foot on the ground so you’re ready to run if you need to. Chocolate brown eyes glare at you, teeming with all the fury the deepest pits of hell could muster. His white button-up shirt is wrinkled, and his blazer is covered in fuzz. He scoffs at your tense position.

“We’re leaving in five minutes.” he turns and slams the door shut. 

It takes you a second to process his words. You keep your foot planted firmly on the ground as you blink a couple times. After a few beats, you stumble off of the bed. 

Rifling through your duffel bag, you pull out the first clean clothes you find and change faster than you ever have before. Something tells you that Agent Mitchell would be furious if you kept him waiting for the full five minutes. After shoving your book in the bag and slipping on shoes, you go to the bathroom and scrub your teeth clean in record time. 

The last thing you want to do is get in the car. You’re either about to be arrested for wasting police time and filing a false report, or you’re about to be told that you were kidnapped; you don’t know which to pray for at this point.

You abandon the toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom. Narrowly avoiding tree roots and the other flora, you hustle to the big black SUV in front of the house. Agent Fallon is driving again. Her face is neutral, but she gives a look to Agent Mitchell.

“Is this about the DNA test?” You ask, eyes shifting between the two. 

“Stay quiet, kid.” Agent Mitchell snaps. You can’t help but shrink in your seat. 

The drive takes forty-five minutes. You’re unable to do anything but stare out of the tinted window and gaze at the island, the place you call home.

The anxiety comes in pulses; one moment you’re fine, the next you want to tuck and roll out of the car. Nausea- or is it hunger?- overtakes you when you approach the police station.

The station is swarmed with officers and men and women in suits. SUVs not dissimilar to the one you’re in fill the parking lot. Officers and what you assume to be agents alike march around the station, some barking orders and others delivering coffee or paperwork. You swallow the lump in your throat, almost choking on your own fear. The ticking of the turn signal is more like a bomb to you- a bomb that will blow your life up. 

When the car pulls into the lot, everything screeches to a halt. 

The leaders stop mid-instruction, the agents stop discussing the paperwork, the air goes still, and the world stops. 

You freeze in the seat, one hand hovering over the belt buckle, and the other clenched in your lap. The onslaught of authorities stare at you through the tinted windows, daring you to make your move. But you can't. You can't get out of this car.

Turns out, you don’t get to make any decisions. 

A man you don’t recognize opens the door for you. With a shaky sigh, you unbuckle your seatbelt, grab your bag, and step out of the car. 

The multitude of eyes puncture your soul the same way Agent Irving’s did. But this is different. They aren’t full of skepticism, they’re full of reverence, compassion, and admiration. You take a small step back, but the man places a hand on your shoulder, making you jump at the unwelcome gesture. He puts a light pressure on your shoulder blade, encouraging you to walk forward. You don’t move, still too shocked by the display.

Out of the vast sea of people, a familiar face emerges. Agent Irving takes something away from his ear, and the other officials part like the red sea. He too looks different. Instead of the scrutinizing intensity he wore the last time you saw him, his eyes were gentle, paternal in a way. 

"Y/N, come with me please." He says gently, shooing away the officer with nothing but his voice. A phone is in one hand, and he uses the other to guide you away.

"What's going on?" You ask as he takes your bag. He shushes you lightly and leads you inside the building. 

Instead of the cramped office from a few days ago, he takes you to a large room with a sturdy oak table in the center. Office chairs surround it and a small projector sits in the middle of the table. He places your bag on the table and gestures to a bench in the back of the room. 

"Have a seat." He insists. You comply, sitting down slowly on the creaky bench. He sits next to you on the other side of the bench. 

“Have you heard the news?” He asks. 

“The DNA test came back?”

“It did.” He assures. “Are you aware of the results?”

You shake your head slowly, digging your nails into your palms. 

He glances down for a moment at the phone in his hands before looking up. “All of the tests came back positive. You are Y/N Falconer-Downey, daughter of Deborah Falconer and Robert Downey Jr.”

No.

The earth stops moving. Your heart drops, ice cold dread spills over you in waves, but you don’t react. Your muscles lock, leaving you breathless and scared. Blue eyes search yours for any sign of a reaction. 

“Your biological father, Robert, is on the phone.” He says, placing the phone in your hand. The extra weight is not comforting, and neither is the fact that your real dad is on the phone.

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers over the end call button before you bring it up to your ear. 

“Go ahead,” Agent Irving pushes. 

“H-hello?” Your voice breaks.

“Y/N?” The desperate voice of a man bursts through the phone speaker; elation, fear, and astonishment dripping from his words. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re alive?”

“Yeah?” Your voice breaks again as tears fill your eyes.

“Are you okay?” 

No, you’re not okay. All you can do is hold back the torrent of tears that want to cascade down your cheeks. You open your mouth, but no words come out.

“N/N?” 

You close your eyes, your resolve breaking. Tears spill down your cheeks, and a wave of pain takes over. “I’m here, I’m alive.”

“Listen to me, N/N. Everything is going to be okay, I promise. Your mom is coming, I’m coming, everything will be okay,”

“Okay,” You whisper, taking the phone away from your ear and placing it in Agent Irving’s hand.

The words he shares with Robert- the words he shares with your father- are nothing but static to you. Abdominal pain, fear, and shock all come to a head. 

It happens too quickly to stop. Your heart races, you feel like you are floating with dark spots clouding your vision. Your body wobbles and odd noises waft in and out of your ears. A hand is placed on your shoulder. Blurry blue eyes meet yours as you struggle to keep your lids from closing completely. You do everything you can do to open your mouth and say something, but it’s too little too late.

With labored breathing and no time to communicate, you fall forward into darkness. 

\------

Robert tried not to get his hopes up about the girl in Washington. 

It wasn’t hard to find things to distract himself with. He was nearing the end of shooting a movie, he has two young and needy children, and he has a cast he could spend hours upon hours with. Yet, when he has even a second free, he stares at the pictures he saved to his phone. Her ears and birthmarks, her face, the little girl. He can’t stop thinking about it. 

What if his nightmare is finally coming to an end? What if he can finally see his baby again? What if he can finally introduce his cast mates, his family, to his daughter? What if he can finally sleep knowing that his daughter is safe?

Well, the results of the test are coming back later that day. 

He’s only talked to Susan about this; the Russo's and his cast mates don’t need to know about this part of his personal life, not until the answer is definitive. Getting everyone’s hopes up wasn’t a good idea, especially if the test came back negative. 

That thought weighs him down the most. No matter what Irving said about this being the strongest case in awhile, there is still a possibility that the text could be negative. He needs the results, and he needs them soon. The anticipation and anxiety is overwhelming him more than the previous tests. The knowledge that she not only remembers Indio letting her put the umbrella on the sandcastle, she has the same ear and smile as Y/N did when she was a little girl.

Robert keeps his chin up the best he can. The cast knew something was off from the moment he stepped onto set. His cast mates are some of the best people on the Earth as far as he’s concerned. They know not to ask at times like this, but they let him share his story when he wants to. Most of the newer recruits like Holland have made remarks in passing, not anticipating the effect it would have on him. Once they realize their mistake, they apologize profusely. Robert tends to brush them off with a friendly pat on the shoulder and a soft smile. 

Robert tries as hard as he can to be his usual rambunctious self while filming the scenes for that day. 

He sits patiently through makeup and costuming before heading to his second scene of the day. They had started early to get the Atlanta sunrise in a shot he desperately hopes they'll use. It's while he's making his way to the specific area when his phone rings. He checks the Caller ID before turning and making his way back to his trailer. He doesn't wait a second longer before answering the phone. 

"Mr. Downey?" Agent Irving's voice rang through the phone, taut and throaty.

"Is the test back?"

"Yes," Robert almost dropped his phone. His heart pounds in his chest, he straightens up, ready to accept the news. 

"What?" He breathed out.

"We found her. The test came back positive." 

A smile bursts onto Robert’s face, so wide that his cheeks hurt within moments. "My daughter is alive?"

“Robert, she’s fine. As far as we know, she was raised in a perfectly normal home by a doctor and a mechanic. We’re still looking into who kidnapped her, but my bet is the doctor.” Irving explains. 

"Where is she? Is she safe? Is-is she hurt?" Robert demands, slamming the door to the trailer.

"She’s on her way to the station as we speak. She should be here within the next few minutes."

“Can I talk to her?”

“When she gets here, yes.”

“When will that be?” He demands again, pacing through the small space. His skin tingles as if he swallowed bees. His heart races, and his eyes water.

“The car is pulling up now,” The sound of people yelling fills the phone as Robert continues to roam around the trailer. 

“I’m going to take her into the station. Stay on the line.”

Robert complies, putting the phone on speaker as he opens his laptop. He rapidly sends an email to his manager, telling him he needs to see him immediately, and that there has been a break in the case. His manager responds within minutes, telling him that he’ll be there in ten. 

Over the phone, everything is muffled and jarred until he hears two distinct voices. 

"Have a seat." Irving insists. There was creaking, some more muffled noises, and then clarity. Robert holds completely still, waiting with baited breath to hear the voice of his daughter. “Have you heard the news?”

“The DNA test came back?” A feminine voice chimes in. He presses a hand over his mouth, it’s all he can do to keep from sobbing. 

“It did.” Irving assures. “Are you aware of the results?”

A moment of silence consumes the other end of the phone. 

“All of the tests came back positive. You are Y/N Falconer-Downey, daughter of Deborah Falconer and Robert Downey Jr. Your biological father, Robert, is on the phone.” 

Tears fill Robert’s eyes. He finally, finally gets to talk to his baby after eleven years of hell. Adrenaline overwhelms him, coursing through his veins, taking over his entire body. 

“Go ahead,” Agent Irving’s voice is quieter than it was before. 

“H-hello?” Your voice is brittle and soft, making the tears fall down Robert’s cheeks.

“Y/N?” His own voice breaks. Eleven years of pain, hope, sadness and fear mix themselves with the overwhelming joy and elation he feels.

“Yeah?” The small voice asks.

“You’re alive?” He can’t help it, he has to make sure. He’s dreamt about this conversation since your sixth birthday; he can’t believe that it is finally happening.

“Yeah?” Her voice breaks. 

“Are you okay?” He presses.

Silence. Why is she not answering? Did something happen? Is she okay?

“N/N?” Worry encapsulates his voice. 

“I’m here, I’m alive.”

“Listen to me, N/N. Everything is going to be okay, I promise. Your mom is coming, I’m coming, everything will be okay,” Words spill out of his mouth. His baby is sad, probably in shock and crying at this point. She sounds so broken, so small and so scared. Everything in him is telling him to run to her, help her and make everything okay, make it all better, make her see that everything will be okay again, that she's safe and that she can come home to her family that loves and misses her.

“Okay,” 

With that, muffled noises come through the phone once more until Irving speaks again. “Robert, you were sent an email with all of the location information. Get here as soon as possible. We are taking in suspects as early as tonight. Your daughter needs you. Y/N? Are you-” The call ends abruptly, cutting off with static and a thump.

Confusion and concern plagues him for a few moments before pure exhilaration takes over him. His heart soars. His daughter is alive. Alive and traumatized, but alive nonetheless. He needs her. She needs him. More tears run down his cheeks. Robert tips his head back, choking silently on a sob. 

Everything is going to be okay. His daughter is alive, he’s getting his baby back. He's getting what he wanted for eleven years. He knew she wasn’t dead, she’s been alive this whole time. For the past eleven years, someone or something was holding her against her will.

Anger replaces his happiness in an instant. Who took her? Why did they take her? Out of all the people on the beach that day, why his little girl? 

He can’t stew on his self-righteous anger for long because of a knock on the trailer door. His manager steps in a second later. 

“A break in the case?” The manager asks, hopeful.

“Cancel everything for the next three weeks.” He demands.

“Robert, we’ve been planning for months, unless-”

“And my daughter’s been waiting for eleven years. Do it quietly,” He snaps. Understanding grew on their face. They nod with gleaming eyes, already typing in a number on the phone.

He called in his private jet and had someone else explain to the Russo's and Feige what was going on. Within the hour, he was on his way to SeaTac where he’ll meet Deborah and Indio for the drive to Langley. 

Robert’s flight to SeaTac is seven hours. Seven hours of pacing, elation, fear, thinking, anticipation and pure rage.

Indio and Debbie stayed behind in LA to set up a room and make sure their house was ready to receive another person. They got things a teen girl would need, and prepped the guest room and bathroom. 

He stayed standing, pacing, for the majority of the flight. The flight attendants checked on him more times than he was able to count, but all he was able to do was run through scenarios in his head. Were you abused? You were most likely raised by the ones who kidnapped you, so did you have Stockholm syndrome? If so, would you ever recover? Nothing would ever be the same, but could you get close? Did you go to school? Do you have a career in mind? Are you healthy?

He thanked the flight crew before running off the plane. Deborah met him outside, bringing him into a hug as soon as she could. Her tears wet his shoulder as she cried. 

“We found her. She’s alive,” Deborah said, thick with happiness. “She’s alive.” 

The news hadn’t sunk in yet. He won’t fully believe it until he sees you, and that was still almost two hours of driving away. The broken family rushed to their rental car, keeping the jet at the airport for when they take their daughter home. 

“Did Agent Irving tell you anything that happened to her?” Indio asked, wringing his hands together. 

“She was probably raised by the kidnappers.” Robert says, gripping the steering wheel. Now that the elation had run dry, more cynical and powerful emotions took hold of him. He was shaking. Maybe he shouldn't be driving. Maybe he should’ve waited for a driver. Maybe driving while blind with emotion was a bad idea. And maybe he didn’t fucking care. “She has Stockholm syndrome. They kidnapped her and raised her as their own.”

“Robert, slow down.” Deborah says, placing a hand on his shoulder. She was furious too, and happy, and scared, but him driving like this wasn’t going to end well. 

“I’m fine. We’re almost to the bridge.” He says, voice solid.

They take the bridge onto the island, electing that the boat would take too long. He couldn’t wait, everything was taking too long. He wants to be at the police station. He wants to be with his daughter. 

“Agent Irving said she fainted earlier today, is she okay?” Deborah said. 

“She fainted?” Robert asked, almost slamming the brakes. He gripped the wheel harder, making his knuckles go whiter. A new surge of worry fills his veins. “God why is this taking so long?”

Debbie reassured him that their daughter is okay. No harm was done, she was in shock and hadn’t eaten, that was it. 

As soon as they parked at the station, Robert jumped out of the car. Irving and two other people met them in the lot. 

“This way, she’s in the conference room.” Irving gestures to a door down the hall in the station.

Through a window with blinds, they see you, a teenager with gorgeous Y/H/C hair, stunning Y/E/C eyes, and perfect Y/S/C skin. Your back is to them. A young woman taps your shoulder, and points to them. You turn around, locking eyes with Debbie.

Deborah chokes out a sob, Indio gasps, and Robert stares. 

You’re beautiful.


	8. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After eleven years, the family is brought back together.

You didn’t know what happened until you woke up. 

A young man crouches next to you, looking you over. Agent Irving stands next to him, arms crossed over his chest. The voices around you sound like clouds, fluffy and distant.

“If she doesn’t come to within the next few minutes, we’re taking her to the hospital. She is at risk for brain damage, and we don’t know if she sustained any other damage from the fall.” The man explains. 

“What made her faint?”

“Emotional shock is my guess, but blood sugar could also have played a part. Has she eaten anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll ask her questions when she wakes up. Sil, prep the stretcher.”

Agent Irving sighs heavily before shaking his head. “Damn it, kid. You better be okay.”

You finally make your eyelids flutter. The ceiling is a blur of cream and beige, your head throbs, and the back of your eyes hurt. When did you end up on the floor? A strange, throaty noise erupts from your throat as you try to sit up. The sound of footsteps rushing to you makes you pause. 

“Hold on a minute, Y/N. Stay down. Sitting up too fast will make you faint again,” He explains, placing a firm yet gentle hand on your shoulder, keeping you on the ground. Chestnut brown hair curls around his face, and his eyes gleam hazel. You blink a couple times, still processing what’s happening. 

“My name is Kollin, I’m a paramedic. I’m here because you fainted.” He says, voice steady. You blink in response, numb to everything but your throbbing temples. 

“Do you know where you are?” He asks.

“The police station?” You ask, voice almost not cooperating. 

“Very good. Does anything hurt?”

“My head.” 

“Have you eaten anything this morning?”

“I haven’t.” 

He nods. “We’ll get you some food. Do you have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Alright. I’ll be right back. Sit up slowly and stay seated for now.”

You nod, doing as you’re told with Agent Irving crouching next to you. Within the next few minutes, Kollin came in the room with two large water bottles and a brown paper bag. He hands it to you with a gentle smile and leaves shortly after. Agent Irving doesn’t stick around either. Agent Fallon and Agent Mitchell need his oversight for something important.

You manage a few bites of the food and half a bottle of water before a wave of anxious nausea overtakes you. The more you think about the situation, the more you want the world to stop spinning. 

Nothing gets better over the next couple hours. No one gives you any information about where your biological family is, nor do they give you any updates on your parents. You’re simply left in the dark about everything until someone finally comes to talk with you.

“Y/N,” Detective Jefferson says gently, slipping back into the room. “We expect your parents and older brother to arrive at 6 PM.”

“Okay,” You nod. Now that you had an hour or two to process the information, you don’t know how you’re supposed to feel. Your parents kept you from your biological family, lied to you, fabricated documents, adn worst of all, they’re the ones that took you. 

It all made sense now. The dreams, the memories, the PTSD, all of it finally fell into place. Nothing could have prepared you for this moment. Your only support system is going to be arrested, and you’re finally going to meet your biological family. You always wanted to get to know them, but this wasn’t the way you imagined it. 

“You need to write a statement.” She continues after a brief period of silence, placing a pad of paper and a pen in front of you. 

You say nothing as you take a hold of the pen, unwilling to make the process any harder than it needs to be. “What does it need to have in it?”

“We need as much detail as possible.”

“I-I don’t even know where to start.” You admit, another bout of tears coming to your eyes. 

“Start from the beginning.”

“Which one?” A sudden burst of anger seeps into your voice against your will. “My research paper or my friend and I fighting?”

Detective Jefferson is unphased as she responds. “Start from the research paper, and add as much detail as you can, especially when you were looking from the documents.”

She nods at you before exiting the room, leaving you alone once more. You take a few deep breaths to combat the angry tears in your eyes. Your heart pounds and your hands shake. This statement would be used to incriminate your parents, but the police asked for it. Could you be arrested for not writing a statement?

You decide it best not to take the chance. 

It turns out to be easier than you expected it to be. After the first few sentences, another rush of emotion takes over. Anger, fear, sadness, and pure anguish write the statement for you. It’s three pages long and ends with you wiping tears off your face and the paper. 

You toss the paper aside and lie your head on the table, using your arms as a pillow. Fear grips you in it’s cold fist. What’s going to happen now? You were a missing person up until a few hours ago. And now… you’re not. You’ve been missing this whole time, and they facilitated it. But what if they didn’t know? That’s impossible, she had the goddamn swimsuit in an old purse. They’re going to get put in jail. You’ll never see them again… 

You’re never going to see your parents again. 

The realization hit you like a bus. You’ve always known you weren’t theirs biologically, and you were okay with that. But you hadn’t fully realized the implications until this very moment. 

Your breakdown is interrupted by the door to the conference room opening. Detective Cerillo walks in holding a bag. He sets it on the table in front of you. 

“Is the statement done?” He asks, not unkindly. 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Your phone and laptop are in this bag. I have to warn you, do not tell anyone about this yet. Your family has requested we keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Can I let them know that I’m okay?” You ask, looking up at Detective Cerillo.

“You family is aware-”

“No, I mean my friend and her family.”

“As long as you don’t let them know what the status of the case is.”

You nod. He picks up the pad of paper and leaves the room. You drag the bag towards you, opening it, and pulling out your phone. It’s cold, and almost dead. With the remaining fifteen percent, you read the messages you’ve missed over the past few days.

_From: Erik Rivera  
is now a good time?  
sent: 1:40 PM, June 13th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
Do you want to have dinner at our house?  
Sent: 2:00 PM, June 13th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
Y/N  
This isn’t funny  
Sent: 4:48 PM, June 13th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
I swear to my lord and saviour that if you don’t answer your phone within the next half hour, i am calling the police  
Sent: 4:30 AM, June 14th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
Why the hell are the police saying you’re safe but can’t talk  
Where are you  
At least tell me you’re okay  
Sent: 6:00 AM, June 14th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
y/n  
Im not stopping until you answer me or i drop dead  
Sent: 7:00 AM, June 15th_

_From: Erik Rivera  
WHY IS THERE POLICE TAPE AT YOUR HOUSE  
Y/N  
WHERE ARE YOU?  
WHAT IS GOING ON?  
Sent: 4:35 AM, June 16th_

_From: Carlos Rivera  
y/n answer your uncle  
Sent: 3:48 PM, June 13th_

_From: Carlos Rivera  
Where are you? why are you not at home?  
Sent: June 14th, 8:00_

_From: Carlos Rivera  
Your parents are not happy. Neither are we.  
Sent: 3:18 PM June 15th_

_From: Carlos Rivera  
Por qué demonios están el FBI en tu casa? que pasó?  
Sent: 5:13 AM, June 16th_

_Ash: bro why the fuck are my dads freaking out  
Ash: y/n  
Ash: seriously, dad is like pacing around the room  
Ash: this isn’t cool  
Ash: stop ignoring me!  
Ash: are you dead?  
Ash: if you’re not dead i’ll kill you  
Ash: look, i’m sorry about the fight, i was way out of line. can you let us know that you’re okay at least???  
Ash: why the EVER LOVING FUCK IS THERE POLICE TAPE SURROUNDING YOUR HOUSE W H A T T H E F U C K Y / N_

_From: Mama <3  
Why can’t Erik get a hold of you?  
What is going on?  
Sent: 6:39 PM, June 13th_

_From: Mama <3_  
This isn’t cool, kid. What the hell is going on?  
Sent: 7:10 AM, June 14th 

Your chest tightens as you scroll through the messages. A large lump grows in your throat, and you’re forced to blink back tears. Guilt racks your frame as you type a text explaining that you’re okay and nothing more with shaky hands. This is all your fault. You caused this. You’re never going to see your parents again because you caused this. You let your phone die in your hands before lying your head back down on the table.

The next few hours ticked by. The waves of emotion came and went, but by six PM, you’re exhausted. All you want to do is curl up in bed. Officers and Agents filtered through the room, some stopping to check on you, and some not acknowledging you at all. 

A young woman came to give you some more water by your request. She smiled sadly at you, offering tissues and some gum as well. You accepted gratefully. However, you were unaware of the small group watching you through the window.

She taps you on the shoulder and gestures to the window. You turn. 

Three people stand on the other side of the glass. A beautiful brunette woman with sparkling blue eyes, a familiar man with dark hair and dark eyes, and a tall younger man with sandy blonde hair. 

You lock eyes with the teary blue ones. They’re rimmed with red, and tears start tracking down her cheeks.

The trio is frozen in place, and so are you. It isn’t until the young woman leaves the room when everyone starts moving. The trio rushes to the room, but hesitates by the door. You retreat within yourself as they stare at you.

The woman’s hands cover her mouth as she meets your gaze once again. She creeps towards you, almost like she’s scared of you. The two men linger by the door, petrified at the prospect of interacting with you.

Once in front of you, she reaches out slowly, and cups your face with both hands, rubbing your cheeks with her thumbs. She smiles, choking out a laugh with more tears slipping down her cheeks.

Her sparkling blue eyes are tender; familiar in a way you weren't expecting. Her hands warm your face considerably, and there was nothing but love and joy written across her entire being.

Before you know it, you're enveloped in a warm embrace. Her arms wrap around you, one around your waist, and another holding your head to her shoulder as she cried in your hair. You clench and unclench your hands a few times, keeping them by your sides while your skin tingles with uncertainty.

You can’t move for a few moments. What are you supposed to do? Hug back? At a snail's pace, you bring your arms up and loosely wrapped them around her back, allowing her to push your head against her shoulder.

"You're okay," She whispers, but you’re unsure whether it’s for you or for her. "You're okay." She repeats, pressing a kiss to your hair with shaking shoulders. The scent of old vanilla wafts through your nose. Imagery takes over your mind, not unlike the way it had in March on the beach. 

_You’re in pain. There was blood. Tears stream down your face. Your head was against someone's collarbone. They smelled like old vanilla, their longer brown-blonde hair was brushed to the side so you didn't get any in your mouth. They are singing, their voice soft and melodic, but you couldn't make out the words. You had hit your head on something, and you were being taken to the ER._

You close your eyes, letting out a small breath. She pulls away from you, holding you at an arm's length.

"Hi," She whispers, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face and tucking them behind your ears.

"Hi," You say, soft and unsure. "You're- you're my mom." You continue. It feels weird on your tongue. Calling someone other than your mother, Emilia, ‘Mom’ was something foreign to you. Foreign, and very uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she smiles, more tears welling in her eyes.

"Yes, sweetie. I'm your mom." Tears dribble from her eyes, trailing softly down her cheeks. "You're alive."

"Yeah, I'm alive." You assure, voice shaky.

The young man lays a hand on your shoulder, making you turn. He stands next to you, brown eyes soft and warm. You hold his gaze for a moment, unmoving. Then he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him before pushing away the hair that covered one of your ears. He runs his thumb over your helix, gently tugging at the fusion.

"My ear doesn't need to be fixed." You whisper. He breathes out a small laugh, putting both arms around you to give you a proper hug.

"You remember?" He asks. The sheer amount of joy in his face startles you. 

"Yeah, I-I do.” 

His chest expands as he takes a deep breath. “What else do you remember?”

You shake your head, unwilling to answer. As far as you're concerned, these people are strangers. Talking to them about your PTSD, your depression, and anxiety are not on your list of priorities.

He takes it well, rubbing your shoulder with his hand. The other man, your biological father, stands near the door, a look of disbelief etched onto his face. He has wrinkles, dark brown curls that are tinged with gray and worn brown eyes.

This is him. This is the man you've been dreaming about for months. He’s here. He was in your dreams, in each memory you’ve had thus far, and now he’s standing right in front of you. You inhale sharply, tears rushing to your eyes. Everything came rushing to the surface.

You know him. 

You blink, shock taking you over for the umpteenth time that day. 

He doesn’t move. You edge towards him. His look of shock dissipates and is replaced by an elated grin. He meets you halfway, bringing you into his arms and holding you tightly. His hand finds a place at the back of your head, guiding it to rest on his shoulder, and he buries his face into your hair.

"You've been gone for so long." He mumbles. His voice is familiar, warm, but sad.

You've been dreaming about your father, your father that you were taken from. The teen boy is a young man now, and your biological mother is here too.

The people that raised you stole you from your real family. There was never an adoption. Everything made sense now. The question dodging, the avoidance, Emilia getting upset over the mere mention of your biological family, Jason always talking to her afterwards.

You were kidnapped.

A rush of something breaks you from your thoughts. You manage to move your head enough to see police leading some people inside. 

Your stomach sinks. Dread crawls it’s way out of the depths of hell and onto your body, covering your skin and making your eyes sting.

No.

You can't bring yourself to look away. Your eyes fixed on the hallway, waiting for the inevitable. Without your consent, your breath hitches. Your biological father realizes what’s happening not a second later, and he begins to rub circles in your back, as well as trying to guide your head in a different direction.

Two officers walk in first, followed by your mom- Emilia- in chains.

No.

Her gaze is set forward. She's wearing a tank top and jeans, exposing her tanned skin. Her hair is in a simple ponytail as she walks with purpose with her head held high.

Two more officers walk after her. Then comes your dad- Jason- in a similar set of chains.

Everything inside of you tells you to go out there, talk to them, hug them, stop them from being arrested, protect them like they protected you for years.

His blue flit eyes over to you. He makes eye contact with you and the world stops for a second. His face falls, and he looks back.

With labored breathing, your blood runs cold. You turn your face back to the man and hide your face in his shoulder, clutching the back of his shirt while you weep in earnest.

\------

You’re beautiful.

Even through the distorted view of the glass, he can see his little girl. 

All of them freeze. One moment passes, then another until the pack mentality takes over, and they all start moving at once.

Deborah goes to you first, sobbing as she finally gets to hold her daughter again. Robert can't move as he watches with tears trailing down his face. You hug back slowly, almost as if you're scared. She pulls away from you, tucking strands of hair away from your face.

"Hi," The uncertainty in your voice made more tears build in his eyes.

"Hi," Deborah says back.

"You're- you're my mom." You hesitated. Those words rush over him, making more anger bubble in his chest. You barely know your own mother. You barely know any of them.

"Yes, sweetie. I'm your mom." Deborah chokes out through her tears. "You're alive."

"Yeah, I'm alive." Your reassuring words made him swallow his anger. You're alive. You're safe. You're going to come home. You’re going to heal and live the rest of your life with your real family. He finally has his baby back.

Indio goes to you next. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to him. He moves your hair to look at your ear. Robert smiles, he always did when he watched his kids interact. It's adorable, the way Indio always felt like he should check up on your ear whenever he hugged you.

"My ear doesn't need to be fixed." He barely hears your voice, but it's enough to make tears fall down his face because you remember. You remember your big brother.

"You remember?"

"Yeah, I do." The ghost of a smile that had adorned your face fell as quickly as it arrived.

"What else do you remember?" You shake your head, and then look up.

Robert's breath caught in his throat as you made eye contact with him. Your eyes are the same sparkling Y/E/C as they were when you were a little girl. But instead of excitement, all he sees is sad ambivalence. He waits, heart racing as something clicks in your head. You blink as realization dawns on your face. Then you start to walk to him.

Your movements are slow, and he can't wait any longer. He opens his arms and embraces you, cupping the back of your head and guiding it to rest on his shoulder, just as he did long ago when you were little and upset.

He's waited for this for so long. Everything around him disappears. All of the sleepless nights, all of the press conferences, all of the hoaxes, every second of the time you’ve spent away from him is gone. The only thing in his heart and on his mind is you; his baby girl that he hasn't seen in eleven long years.

Robert cries openly, burying his head in your hair. You're here, in his arms and everything is suddenly okay. His baby is back and she's safe. 

She's here, and she's okay. She’s okay. He thinks, holding you much tighter

But he knows something is wrong when you tense and your breath hitches. He looks around to be met with police officers marching through the station. 

Your kidnappers are coming. 

He doesn't need anything else for his blood boils. Unadulterated rage runs through his veins, replacing all bliss he had experienced a moment ago. His heart begins to race, and he tenses along with you.

As soon as a woman in chains comes through the small hallway, he snaps. If your breathing didn't pick up and you didn't start crying, he would've burst out of the room, grabbed a gun, and shot that bitch point blank.

His hands shake, his heart pounds in his ears, and no amount of rational thought or deep breathing is getting him out of this fury.

He would fight the entire police station to get his hands on that fucking woman. He wants her to feel as much pain and anguish he had. He wants her to suffer.

Deborah lays a hand on his shoulder. He looked to her, his jaw set and teeth clenched. She too is ready to kill. Pure murder roars in her eyes, the serene ocean blue turned into stormy violence. Her chest rose and fell quickly and her hands are clenched by her sides.

A man came in soon after.

Robert watched as the man looked at you. He made eye contact with you, and that's when you broke down, sobbing into his chest, and clutching the back of his shirt for comfort. He can only hold you as you sob into his chest. 

He forces himself to focus on his daughter. Wrapping his arms around you, he brings you impossibly closer to him. He rubs your back gently as you clutch the back of his shirt in your hands. Deborah moves closer, and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

"It's gonna be okay, honey. You're going to be fine," Deborah whispers, rubbing your shoulder and running a hand through your hair. She’s doing exactly what she did when you were little.

If you heard her, you didn't show it, you just kept sobbing into Robert’s chest. Indio paces the floor like a caged animal, running his hands through his air and taking deep breaths.

"Breathe, Y/N. You need to breathe, sweetheart," Robert coaxes, his voice soft and comforting. He feels your sobs slow and your breath, while still rocky, even out.

"There you go, kid. You've got it." He encourages. "Keep breathing, you'll be okay,"

It takes a few minutes. A few minutes of you crying everything out and clinging to him to fully stop crying. All the while, Robert and Deborah do their best to soothe you by rubbing your back, encouraging you to breathe, and reminding you that everything is going to be okay.

When you stop crying altogether, you stand there and keep your head resting on his shoulder, not that he's complaining. He's happy to take as long as you need to pull away from him.

So Robert keeps his arms around you, and his cheek rests on the top of your head. Deborah kisses your temple. Indio is sitting at the large table now, hands clasped and leg bouncing anxiously. Watching his sister cry without being able to do anything had always stressed him out greatly. 

You pull away slowly. He lifts his head and holds your shoulder, once again rubbing soothing circles into your skin, hoping to calm you down more.

"I'm sorry," Your voice is hoarse, meek and so rough.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Y/N. None of this is your fault." Deborah says, frowning.

"I know, I just-" You cut yourself off with a sigh. "What now?"

In spite of everything, Robert smiles. "We go home."

Detective Cerillo comes in soon after and sits everyone down. You sit by Indio, Robert and Deborah sat on either side of their kids.

"We've gathered everything we needed to from their house. You are welcome to go there and collect anything you want." Detective Cerillo looks at you when he says that before turning his gaze to the rest of them. "Your legal team has been in contact, and they are working very fast on this. However, we need a written statement from each of you and after that, you're free to leave."

"Thank you, Detective." Robert says. He's ready to get these people put away. His legal team will rip them to shreds.

"An officer will come in with pens and paper shortly." With that, Detective Cerillo leaves.

Robert runs a hand over his face before he looks to you. You sit with your legs crossed on your chair, fiddling with your hands. You look exhausted. He looks over you to his ex wife and son. They look just as tired as you do.

Within the next moments, the door to the conference room opens. Agent Irving comes into the room. 

"Y/N," Your head snap up at the sound of your name. "I need to meet with you for a moment." As you’re getting out of your chair, Debbie speaks up. 

“Is something wrong?"

"Emilia and Jason will not speak to us without seeing her first-"

"No.” Robert’s voice booms in the small room. “Absolutely not. She is not going anywhere near them." Robert grits his teeth, getting up and putting a hand on your shoulder, his chest against your back.

"Robert, I understand your hesitance, but you need to trust me."

"No way in hell is she going near them again." He snaps.

"Robert, this is not up to you-" Irving begins to explain, frustration seeping into his voice.

"I'm her father." He continues.

"I'll do it."


	9. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against Robert's will, you talk to Emilia and Jason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a lot of emotional manipulation in this chapter, be wary of that

"I'll do it," You step forward, tugging your shoulder away from Robert’s grip. The room plunges into shocked silence from your compliance. One beat passes, then two. You thought that you wouldn’t be able to see them again, and now you have an opportunity that you can’t pass up. You can get answers to the questions you’ve been harboring for the past few days, and the new questions that arose this morning. 

"No, you're not." Robert’s words are slow, stern, and edged with anxiety. You grit your teeth. You’re not letting him take away a chance to see your parents one last time. 

"I'll be okay." You say, turning to face him. 

"The last time you said that to me you went missing for eleven years." He retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. Instead of the anger his voice suggests, his eyes are full of pain and fear. Rather than matching his anger, you soften.

"We're in a police station. I'm safe."

"Robert,” Agent Irving cuts in. He steps farther into the room and places a hand on your shoulder. “She will be safe. Emilia and Jason are in cuffs. They won’t hurt her, and they can’t take her."

"Please," You all but beg. “I need to see them, I need answers.” 

He clenches his teeth. Why the hell are you asking to see the people that kidnapped you? How much did they brainwash you? He wants to take you and run back to LA. He wasn’t able to protect you eleven years ago from these people, but he can sure as hell keep you away from them now. 

"No."

"Robert," Deborah places a hand on his shoulder. She leans in close, whispering something you can’t make out. He recoils in shock, shaking his head. You tap your fingers against your leg as you look between the two. Deborah nods gently, glancing back at you and Irving.

“I want her back here in fifteen minutes.” His tone gives no room for opposition. He has to hold himself back from grabbing hold of you and never letting go as he watches Irving lead you out of the room. 

"You don't have to stay and longer than you want to, we just need them talking. Touching is prohibited. They’re cuffed and chained, so they can’t get up or touch you anyway." You nod to his words. "There's a one way mirror and a camera in there. If anything happens, armed officers will be there immediately. You'll be fine, Y/N."

The pair of you stop in front of a heavy steel door. You open the door and step into the room. With one hand, still on the handle, you take in the scene.

Your dad- Jason- sits in a chair, his head in his chained hands. His elbows rest on a steel table with an empty chair on the other side of it. At the sound of the door opening, his head snaps up. His eyes are wet with tears. Heavy chains are snaked around his wrists and ankles, confining him to the chair. He moves like he’s about to stand up, but is yanked back to the seat. He looks at you with eyes that are painted with sorrow and guilt, yet he smiles like he just came back from a long day of work. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. With fluttering eyelids, you desperately hold back another wave of tears. The anger that you had felt moments prior sputters away, and all you’re left with is sadness. You take a hesitant step forward, letting go of the door handle. It slams shut, the sound reverberating throughout the room. 

"Y/N," He calls. All of sudden, you can’t move. Your heart pounds as your stomach sinks into a pit of darkness. Your dad- no. He’s not your father. He kidnapped you. He kept you away from your real family. But he raised you. He taught you right from wrong. Family isn’t made by blood, it’s made up by who cares for you, who supports you, who helps you succeed in life. But he stole you.

“Come here,” He coaxes, nodding to the chair on the other side of the steel table. You sniffle, glancing at the chair and then back at him. “It's okay, Y/N. Come sit down.”

What feels like forever was probably a few moments. You traipse to the chair across from him. A shrill screech fills the room as you pull back your seat before you sit down. Blue eyes search your Y/E/C eyes. Sitting across from him has never felt so tense, not even when you were at your lowest. 

Minutes ago, you were ready to scream at him, demand answers and the last eleven years of your life back. But now, you just want to hug your dad. 

“Y/N,” He starts with a shaky voice. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

“No.” You shake your head. 

“Your mom and I love you, okay? That’s all you need to kno-”

"Why?" You demand. "Why did you take me?"

“Y/N, you do-”

“Why did you take me?”

“You do-”

“Answer the question.” You beg.

"I didn't know who you were until I watched the news the next morning." His tone was even as he peers into your eyes with a sincerity that he’s never had when speaking about your mysterious past. You cover your mouth with your hands in a vain attempt to keep your cries as you realize that for once, you're hearing the truth about who you are from the people that raised you. 

You can’t help but shake your head again.

“I didn’t lie to you, Y/N. I never did. I played no part in bringing you home.”

“Bullshit!” 

“I’ll explain everything, sweetheart. Just listen.”

Anger overtakes your sadness. Your leg bounces uncontrollably under the table, your nails dig into the back of your hand with a strength you didn’t know you had, and your vision blurs from the storm of tears in your eyes.

"We adopted a little girl when we found out that we couldn't have biological children. Her name was Charlotte," His eyes flit down to his lap as he draws an unsteady breath. "She died of cancer a couple years later." His eyes meet yours again, gleaming with remorse. "We separated. She went on a trip to Hawaii for a month to clear her head, and then came to our home in Maine with you. We moved here a month later when you had gotten used to us."

"You knew.” Your anger skyrockets. Fast and shallow breaths rip through your lungs, waves of heat crash over you as you keep yourself from getting up and storming out of the room.

"I did." His eyes turn softer. 

Pain blossoms throughout the back of your hand, chunks of skin getting stuck under your dirty nails. Crimson blood flows like lava on your Y/S/C skin. You don’t flinch, only keep pressing the blunt knives in your hand and passed your skin.

"You knew and you did nothing." You spat. 

"I'm a selfish man, Y/N. Charlotte was our everything, and when we lost her, I lost a part of myself that I didn't get back until I bonded with you. I didn't want to let you go."

"What about them?" The tears finally start falling from your eyes, slipping off your cheeks and onto the cold steel below you. "What about my real family? You know what losing a child is like, why did you let it happen?"

"We needed you, Y/N. You filled a hole in our hearts and our lives."

“No! You didn’t!”

“We did. I was on the brink of suicide, your mom wanted a divorce. But when you came,” He shakes his head. “It was almost back to normal.”

You sit back in the chair silently. More tears fall down your face as you look at your hand, rubbing your fingers over the new wound. Raw nerves cover your body, making the pain so much worse. The week of waiting was exhausting and painful, but you’d give anything to go back and do something different.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" Your voice breaks, coming out as a whisper compared to the accusatory tone you had taken on.

"No," His voice mirrors yours. “but I always knew it was going to end.”

That’s all you could take. You stand, pushing the chair behind you and storm out of the room. 

Your breathing turns from shallow to ragged in seconds, and you practically stumble out of the room. The world starts to spin, and for a second, you're scared that you’re going to pass out again. Two agents push passed you and slam the door shut. 

“Good job, kid.” Agent Irving says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You got him talking, that’s what we needed.” You manage a look of confusion through your anxiety. Didn’t he demand to see you? “Everything’s working out great. Now you need to get Emilia talking.”

“No, I-I-I need a break, I can’t do it, not yet.” You sputter, shouldering passed him. It was just your luck that a private bathroom was just down the hall. You need to get away for a second to breathe and process the new information. 

You lock yourself in the room, putting all of your weight on the door for support. Squeezing your eyes shut, you wrap your arms around your stomach and hold yourself. With every gasping breath you take and every tear that rolls down your cheek, pulses of regret overwhelm you. You lied to yourself, you don’t want to know where you came from, you want to go back and choose a different topic to research or choose a book to read and write about, you want to ignore Ashlynn all together, you want to go back and tell yourself that the truth isn’t what you want. 

_He knew and he did nothing. He knows exactly what it feels like to lose a child so why did he let another family suffer for so long. Why did he let this happen? Why didn’t he do anything? Why did he let her do this?_

“I can’t do this. I can’t do it, I don’t want to do this anymore.” You mumble, squeezing yourself. 

But you want answers, you want to know why the fuck she thought it was okay to take a child. Why she thought that stealing another woman’s baby was fine because she lost her own. Another part of you wanted your new-found biological family to come and save you from the mess you got yourself into. 

_-in two three four out two three four in two three four out two three four in two three four out two three four-_

Your gasping sobs slow into real breaths. With the wave of anxiety over, you slide down the wall of the bathroom. The stone wall is cold on your neck and arms. Slumping against it, you relish in the relief the cool stone brings. Was it sanitary? Probably not. Do you care? No.

Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply and exhale the same until your heart rate has slowed and your eyes are dry. The blood from your hands dried on your clothes and your skin, making the back of your hand itch. You use the underside of your shirt to dry the rest of your blood through the last of your sniffles.

Confronting the woman that stole you is going to be no mean feat. But now that your anxiety is gone, you let yourself get angry. 

_I’m a selfish man. I didn’t want to let you go._

Your heart picks up again.

_How fucking dare they. How fucking dare they claim to love me? They fucking stole me. How dare she? How dare she fucking steal me?_

Pushing yourself off of the floor, you go to the sink and turn on the water. You bend over the sink and splash the cold water on your face. You stay in that position and you grip the edges of the sink until your hand starts to bleed again.

As the last of the cold water drips off your face, you look up. The image that stares back at you is nothing short of horrifying. Dull wet skin, one bloody hand and a stain on your shirt to match, puffy cheeks from crying, and the beginnings of sunken in cheeks. The only life in your face is in your eyes. Y/E/C eyes are ablaze with fury, the red rimming them only fuels the fire.

You drag a paper towel over your face and hands, crumple it, and throw it in the bin by the sink. You march out of the bathroom, anger acting as your guide.

Agent Irving stands outside of the room Emilia’s in, watching her through the mirror. He looks up at you, unphased. "Ready?" 

“Yes.”

He opens the door for, and you enter.

Your footsteps aren't muffled by the flooring, if anything they're amplified. Holding your head high, rage exuding from your very being, you sit in front of the woman that stole you. But as soon as you see her, you want to break down into tears again. Your mother is sitting chained like a violent criminal when she is the gentlest woman you’ve ever met. 

You mentally shake your head once you realize what you’re doing.

_Focus._

She sits stiffly, staring at you other for a moment. Her face is hard, unreadable. She holds herself as if she’s ready to deliver news to a patient, not confront the consequences of over a decade of lies. 

That is until her face softens. It falls into a maternal smile, gentle and warm. But it’s shallow, something in her eyes is missing; they remain the same cold brown as they've always been. 

"Y/N," She coos. "Sweetie, I'll fix this mess,"

“Little mess?” Your eyebrows shoot up at the semantics, resisting the urge to leave it all to her.

“Yes, Y/N. You don’t have to talk to the detectives anymore, or those people you were with earlier-”

“You mean my biological parents? The ones you refused to tell me about. The ones you lied about? The ones you took me from?” You interrupt her, leaning forward.

“We’re your real parents darling, not those people. Your father and I raised you, not the-”

“You kidnapped me off of a fucking beach!” You snap, slamming a hand on the table.

She blinks, unphased by your anger. “I know what it looks like, sweetie.” 

“What does it look like?” You challenge. “Look at the room we are sitting in! You’re in a police station getting interrogated by the FBI for kidnapping a child!”

“Like I said, I’ll take care of this; your father and I will fix this.” She says as if this was a simple mix up with a menial task.

“Will you return the last eleven years to me and my real parents?” 

“Your father and I are your real parents, darling.” Her voice grows harder, frustrated, but the fake sweetness remains.

“You lied to me about everything, you gaslighted me, manipulated me, you stole my life and tore apart a family. For what? You should’ve just adopted another girl, not stolen one!” Your gestures are wild, almost out of control. All of your rationale is gone, and you're left with the sweet sting of unadulterated rage. Emilia shakes her head, trying to move around in the chains that hold her back. She tugs the chains a few times before giving up.

“You looked just like her.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You looked like Charlotte. The way you moved, and the way you pet the dog. You were so beautiful, I knew that I had to have you so I could have her back. I tried to make you like her, I tried to call you Charlotte so you’d be perfect but you were so stubborn.” Her voice melts into something full of affection that you thought she was incapable of. It’s full of love and longing, something so deep that you’ve never seen coming to light. But all of that changes in an instant and she goes back to the cold sweetness she had before. “You’re not perfect, but you’re good enough.” 

“So that makes it okay?” You deadpan, sitting back with a small huff of disbelief by her logic. “You’re insane!”

“I forgive you for what you did, Y/N. Going to the cops was not okay in the slightest. However, I am willing to move past it because you’re my daughter, and I love you.” She states firmly, locking eyes with you, face hard and unreadable once more.

“No, I’m not.” The chair is thrown back as you stand up. You march out of the room, on the edge of a breakdown for the umpeenth time that day.

In the hallway, you’re surrounded by unfamiliar faces until someone places a hand on your shoulder. They lead you to the conference room, and when you finally look up, you see Agent Mitchell through your tears. You rip your shoulder away from him immediately. Before he had time to express his displeasure, you’re whisked away by someone else. 

You're shaking and breathing harder than ever from the remaining adrenaline, and your hand is still injured. You should be screaming off the energy, yelling, maybe punch a wall or push over a filing cabinet. But you don’t. You feel defeated. All you want to do is go home and ugly-cry into a pillow.

Robert has you in his arms. Instead of fifteen minutes, it lasted half an hour. He is anything but pleased. He was already agitated to begin with, and the Agents willfully putting his already distraught daughter through something that’s incredibly traumatic made him want to burn the place down.

He runs a hand through your hair and places a kiss on your head. "You're okay," He mutters mostly for his own comfort. He has one arm around your upper back and the other stroking your hair the way he was earlier.

If this was any other day, you’d probably push him off of you, but the comfort felt nice. Being close to him was comforting, it made you feel safe and gave you an excuse not to listen to the agent that was talking to your biological family. 

"You're free to go. We'll stay in contact with your legal team..." Agent Mitchell keeps talking, but you don't bother to listen, especially not to him. His words become muffled as you mentally remove yourself from the situation.

Robert loosens his grip on you, but doesn’t let you go. Your unfocused eyes remain glued to the floor. The dark wood swirls into each other, light bounces off of it making the glare of the wood gleam like a star in the inky night sky. 

“-/N?” You’re broken out of your trance by a small shake of your shoulder. A set of concerned brown eyes stare into yours. “Ready to go home?”

You look back at him and then look down. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“We’re going to go pick up some of your stuff and then to the airport.” Robert explains, voice soft and paternal as he rubs your shoulder. You follow the small group to an expensive looking car. Indio takes a seat next to you, Deborah sits in the front and Robert drives. Your voice is soft as you give Robert directions to your house. 

The car rolls to a stop in front of your home. Your hand hovers over the handle for a moment before you finally get out. The cool island air bathes you, and you start to feel a little calmer. You’re at home, you’re actually safe now. Deborah stops for a moment, gazing at your home. You can’t see her face, and you can’t imagine how she feels. You don’t hang around to try. 

Some things are missing from your living room, mostly photos. Robert stays close to you, as does Deborah. Indio is nowhere to be found. They both look overwhelmed and the flame in Robert’s eyes starts to grow once more. 

"My room is this way," You say, gesturing across the room. Someone draws in a shaky breath and lets out an equally shaky sigh.An odd sense of guilt comes over you. Biting your lip, you open your bedroom door. Everything is exactly how you left it: your bed made, clothes hanging neatly in your closet, makeup displayed on your desk by your charging laptop, and laundry baskets empty.

You kept your room clean. Not because you're a clean freak, but because your mom was. She would come into your room once a week at a random time on a random day and nitpick everything. If you were there, you would have to change it immediately or there would be a serious problem. If you weren’t at home, she would write a long to do list for you when you get home. Lord knows that if you didn't, there would be even more problems.

That's why everything in that damn house was spotless and in perfect order. She didn’t care about appearances to the outside world. She cared because she’d lose her mind if one pillow was out of place for more than one minute. She explained to you when you were old enough to understand that if you had made a mess, it was okay as long as you cleaned it up the way she did.

"Grab your clothes and the small things. We'll have everything else shipped or put into storage." Robert smiles, keeping his gaze on you. You nod, grabbing a suitcase from your closet and setting it on the floor. You don't miss Deborah's shaking hands run through her hair or the way Robert's face hardens when he sees a picture of you and your parent/kidnappers at Pike's Place. Instead of acknowledging it, you swallow thickly and continue placing your clothes in your suitcase. 

"Can I help, sweet pea?" Deborah crouches by you. 

"Sure," You say softly, pulling another small suitcase from the back of your closet. "Where's Indio?"

"He stayed outside, he didn't want to come in." Deborah explains gently. "What do you want me to pack?"

"Just the clothes for now, I guess." 

Debroah begins to attack your dresser and Robert looks around your room, his mind somewhere else. He has a look on his face that you can't quite place. It's distant, sad. Almost like he's punishing himself. He could have prevented all of this. If he was faster, if he looked harder, if he hadn’t let you out of his arms... His eyes grow wet, but he snaps himself out of it by clearing his throat. "How can I make this go faster?"

"I think we're almost done." Deborah says, zipping up the suitcase she packed. 

"I'll grab a couple other things," You mutter, standing fully. You go to your desk, pick up your empty school bag and grab a couple pictures of you and Ashlynn off of the dark wood. You pause when you find yourself reaching for the picture of you and your faux parents at Pike's Place. Instead of grabbing it, you reach for a book you had been reading and slip it in your bag. 

You glance back at your biological parents. They're distracted by a near silent conversation with each other. In a flash, you grab the photo, your laptop and the various chargers on your desk as well as your makeup case and shove everything haphazardly into your bag. Zipping it up, you shoulder the bag and go to your waiting biological family.

“Ready, sweet pea?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out. 

Deborah guides you this time, clearly eager to get out of there. Going back out to the driveway, you let the evening air bathe you. Through the darkness, you’re able make out one figure near the car and another walking towards it. You set your bag down, trying to make out who it is in the dim lighting. 

“Y/N?” Indio asks.

“Hold on,” You say, jogging to meet the person on the road.

One benefit to growing up in a small town is the sense of community; everyone knows everyone and everyone is a neighbor. Soon enough, long dark hair came into view as did a familiar face. You let out a small breath of relief and immediately went to meet her. 

“Ashlynn!” 

“Y/N, what the hell!” She starts, throwing her hands in the air. Frustration laces her words, making you groan internally. Your phone died. “You have some nerve disappearing like that. Where the fuck were you? Do you know- oh my god what happened?” She cuts her rave off as she sees your face.

“You were right.” You couldn’t keep your voice from cracking. “You were right about everything.”

“What do you mean?” 

“The research paper, Ash.” 

Her concern changed to horror. “You mean, you’re...” 

“Yeah,” 

“Oh, my god, Y/N.” She wraps her arms around you, pulling you close. You throw your arms around her, squeezing her with all of your remaining strength.

“I have to go. I don’t know if they’ll ever let me come back.” You choke out.

“Y/N. Oh, my god.” She whispers. “I don’t know- what the fuck?”

“I have to go, Ashlynn. I’m moving. I don’t know if I’ll come back anytime soon.”

She pulls away from you to reveal your teary eyes and puffy face. Her chocolate brown eyes search yours for a few seconds before she pulls you close again. “I don’t understand- this is happening?”

“Yeah, you were right about me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Y/N?” Robert’s voice cuts through the night.

You pull away from her. “I have to go.”

“Y/N, wait-”

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” You say, turning and jogging back. Ashlynn opens her mouth to say one last thing, but can’t get the words out.

You get into the back of the car. Indio gets in next to you. One last tear trails down your cheek. You brush it away with the back of your hand as Robert backs out of the driveway. As he gets to the main road, you catch his eye in the rearview mirror. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles at you. You blink, but can’t bring yourself to smile back. The only thing you can do is rest your head against the car and gaze out the window.


	10. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're taken home after eleven years.

Your eyes are glued to the window for the entire car ride. The stars are blurred through the tinted windows, each one blending into the others. The chilly air from both the AC and the window make goosebumps spread over your skin. Soft music plays from the speakers, relieving a little bit of the silence that had filled the car. A sort of stale air freshener makes the car smell like the sleazy dealership down the street from your dad’s business. 

It’s only when you cross the bridge that you fully realize you're leaving your home for a long time. Your teeth sink into the inside of your cheeks, letting the pain and metallic taste of blood chase away the new set of tears. This wasn't supposed to happen until after high school. You were meant to finish high school here, go to a community college, then transfer. You aren’t supposed to leave so soon. 

What about your teachers? What about your neighbors? What about your home and the business? What are you supposed to do next? You don’t turn eighteen for another nine months, so you’re not legally allowed to make your own decisions. Can you live with them and get along with them? You don’t know the entire situation with Kyra, but you definitely don’t want it to end up like that. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you must have. One minute, you were crossing the bridge onto the mainland, and now you were at SeaTac. 

"C'mon, sweet pea. We're here." Deborah says softly, her gentle hand shaking you awake. You blink the bleariness away as you sit up. The car is empty save for you. Deborah crouches outside of the car, one hand on your shoulder, the other resting on her knee. 

"Hmm?” You sit up fully, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. 

"We’re at the airport. We’re going to fly home." She explains gently.

"Where?" You ask, the haze of sleep thick in your body and mind. 

"LA, sweet pea." 

"Wait, what about the press?" You rush out, finally getting out of the car, worry filling your voice. 

"It's a private jet, we don't have to worry about that." She explains, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Your dad and Indio got your stuff, let's board." She places a hand on the small of your back, leading you out the runway. Everything is a blur: your surroundings, boarding, falling asleep again. Your mind and body shut down for a few hours to cope with the stress of the past week. 

\------

You don’t know what wakes you up. Maybe it’s the hum of the plane, maybe it’s your anxiety returning, or maybe it’s the soft words that float in the air from a conversation.

"Avengers 4 starts in late July, we have a few weeks until I need to leave," A husky male voice says softly. 

"What are we going to do about the press?" Another male voice cuts in, concerned. "They'll be all over this." 

"We keep it to ourselves and pray no one picks up on it." A female voice says. You blink your eyes open to a cream colored wall staring back at you. You frown in confusion. Closing your eyes, you focus on their words. Something tells you this conversation is important.

"I'll call my PR team in the morning. They'll make sure nothing gets out. And I'll get a meeting with legal sorted out as soon as possible."

"We can't rush into this, Robert. Think about Y/N, we don't know where she's at right now. We need to give her a few weeks for her to process everything." 

"I know," 

"We need to get appointments with a therapist as soon as we can. And general check ups, dentist, optometrist...” She sighs as her voice trails off. “I just hope she’s okay.”

“She will be, Debbie.” The first male comforts her. “What are we going to do about custody?”

“We should discuss that later. I don’t know if having her move houses every week would be great for her mental health right now.”

Someone hums and the second male cuts in again. “What about the reward money?” 

“I don’t know… She did solve it on her own.”

You almost snort. You don’t remember the exact amount that was offered, but it was more than one million dollars. What the fuck are you, a seventeen-year-old, supposed to do with one million dollars? 

“Oh, my god. Robert, what happened to her hand?”

_Oh._

_Oh fuck._

You forgot about that. You force yourself to stay still and keep breathing evenly as you feel someone approach. They take your hand in theirs, and it takes everything in you to not rip your hand back immediately. 

“Is she okay?” 

“What happened?”

“It looks like her nails… Poor thing. I’ll take care of this tomorrow.” They run their fingers over the wounds a couple times as they sit next to you. 

"Is she still asleep? We'll be landing soon."

Panic settles in your chest. You don’t want to interact with them yet, you’re still so tired. 

_Do I snore? Should I fake snore? Fuck. How do I look when I sleep?_

Luckily for you, she shuts that down pretty fast. "Let her sleep a little longer, Indio. She's had a rough day. We all have." 

The sound of heels clicking fills the air for a few moments before a new voice joins the group. "We'll be landing in half an hour, would you like anything else?" 

"No, thank you Diana," The clicking of heels precedes more talking. 

"Are you going to let the Marvel execs know what's going on?" 

"Not right now, I'll let them know before we start filming again," 

“What about the cast?”

He lets out a hefty sigh. “Soon. Not now. I want to settle in before any announcements .” 

There's nothing more said after that. You don’t know how much time passes before your shoulder is being gently shaken. You blink the blurriness out of your eyes and roll over as someone starts to speak. 

“We’re landing soon, sweet pea. You don’t have to move yet.” Deborah's voice is gentle and possesses a level of affection that you haven’t heard in a long time. She sits on the seat next to you with the armrest raised. Brushing some hair away from your face, she tucks it behind your ear. “How are you feeling?”

You offer a half-hearted shrug, using a hand as a pillow. She still smiles at you. 

"It's been a rough day, hasn't it?" She asks as if she's speaking to a much younger child. Not that you can blame her, you had barely turned six when she last saw you. 

"Yeah," You mumble against your hand. 

"It's okay, we'll be home soon," She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. You take a deep breath after she settles back into her seat. A natural silence enveloped the plane for the next few minutes. Your eyes wander, too shy to do anything else. Robert types quickly on his phone, probably setting up meetings with his PR team and legal team. Indio sits with his arms resting on his knees, also looking anxiously around the plane. Deborah stays next to you, fingers tapping on the material of her other armrest. The plane shakes as it touches the ground and the intercom comes on shortly after that. 

"This is your captain speaking, we have landed at LAX in Los Angeles, California. The local time is 11:47 PM and the local temperature is 80 degrees fahrenheit. As always, thank you for flying with us," 

Robert puts his phone in his pocket and stands. When he catches your eye, he smiles, face wrinkling as he does. He's so much older and worn than you remember. Wrinkled skin and graying hair replaced the floofy hair,but his eyes remain the same warm brown from your memories. You don't even want to imagine what they went through. The seat in front of you suddenly becomes outstandingly interesting. You stand as Deborah does, following her off of the jet. 

It's a lot warmer than Langley is. The air is thick and sticky around you, making you cringe internally. The sounds of planes landing and taking off makes it impossible to hear what Robert is trying to say. 

You look around, spotting two people with your bags and more workers running around the open area. Carts with trailers full of luggage and crates whizz past, moving fast to make their gate. A few workers holding glowing sticks are talking and laughing with each other as they make their way to the large airport. 

You stiffen when an arm is wrapped around your shoulder. Robert beams down at you, wide enough for his eyes to crinkle up again. He rubs your shoulder, and you force a smile.

"Let's go home," He breathes out finally loud enough for you to hear as he leans over to rest his head on yours. He leads you to another, much larger car. This car has someone sitting in the driver’s seat. The two men with your bags place them in the back and Robert hands them something. They thank him and bid the rest of you good night. You can only nod at them. 

Everyone piles into the car, Robert sitting next to you. He shifts so he's facing you, and smiles again. His happiness is radiant, with bright eyes and open arms. Deborah and Indio match his enthusiasm. Guilt tugs at your heart. How could you feel sad when they're so happy? Why are you so upset about leaving the place you were raised in to go back with your family? They deserve this joy and elation, you're bringing them down. 

God, not his again. You internally groan. I can't go back there. 

“We’re another couple hours out, N/N. You can go back to sleep if you want to.” Robert says. You shake your head, leaning into your seat. 

The car ride is the most awkward thing that you have ever had to experience. Any attempt at conversation was thwarted by short answers or long pauses. Eventually everyone gave up and the driver turned on the radio. It only takes another hour for the driver to pull down a long driveway. He has to open a gate to another drive way. From what you initially see, the grounds are beautiful, vast, and intensely private. He pulls to a stop in front of the large garage. 

You get out and stretch as soon as the car stops. Your butt hurts and your back aches from sitting for so long. Turning around, you see the house you're going to be living in for the next, well, until you move out. It's big, easily two stories. It looks to be a nice light gray with much darker trim. Lights on a concrete path lead up to the front porch of the house. Flowers and shrubs decorate the edges of the path, making it look like a shot from a movie.

"Welcome home, Y/N," Deborah says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in for a big hug. Another set of arms wrap around you, and then another so you’re trapped in between three strangers. With your face squished against a shoulder, and arms forced by your sides, you tell yourself to get over it, this is what they need. 

"Thanks." You mumble into her collarbone..

You don't spend a lot of time outside. You grab your backpack and Indio grabs your other bags then enter the house. There is a small entryway before the house opens up into a wide living area. You don't pay much attention to the house as you’re still exhausted from the events of the week. Your body is stone, stiff and almost immovable, yet you somehow manage to follow Deborah into the house and up the stairs. The pain in your head has dulled to a throb, and your eyes ache from crying so much.

"This is your room. It isn't furnished yet. We waited for you to come home so you could choose how you wanted it to look." Deborah opens a cream colored door to reveal a dark room. She steps in and flips a switch, lighting up the area. It's big, a lot bigger than your room at home. There are two doors on the opposite wall and painters tape is up on the beige walls. A weird feeling settles deep in your stomach. You know that in each place they have lived they saved a room for their missing daughter- they saved a room for you- but hearing it from her made it way more real than reading it in an article online. 

"So you can stay in the guest room across the hall for now." She steps out and gestures to a door across the hall, opens the door and turns on the lights for you. The room is simple with a king bed on one wall and a nightstand on either side. An entertainment center is set up against the opposite wall with a small TV on it. A tall cherry wood dresser stands by a door to what’s presumably the closet. You go in slowly, setting your backpack on the bed. Indio follows, leaning your bags against the wall. 

"Thanks, Indio." 

"You're welcome." He hugs you tightly, squeezing you so hard that it’s hard to breathe. "Sleep well." 

"You too," You whisper, loosely wrapping your arms around his back. His hand grazes the fused part of your ear, tugging on it just a little before he pulls back. You force yourself not to shudder and pull away at the contact. With one last smile, Indio leaves the room.

"Do you need anything before bed?" Deborah asks, coming into the room. 

"No, I'll be fine for now. Thank you," you give her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Of course, Y/N." She steps into the room more with open arms. You aren't about to deny this woman of anything, so you take a couple steps and hug her. She presses a kiss to the top of your head and one to your temple. It leaves a resonating tingle, but you’re not sure whether it was from a caring mother or a stranger. "Goodnight sweet pea. My room is at the end of the hall on the right if you need anything tonight, okay?" 

"Okay."

You spot Robert over her shoulder. He offers a blissful smile with kind eyes, but you can't bring yourself to smile back. Deborah pulls away, kissing your forehead one last time. 

Robert comes to you with open arms. You let him embrace you, loosely hugging back. You miss the concerned look Robert gives Deborah and the sadness in Deborah's eyes when she's not looking at you. He rubs a hand up and down your back for a few moments, continuing his nonverbal conversation with his ex-wife.

"Goodnight, N/N. Sleep well."

"You too," You mutter. He kisses your head as well and pulls away. The two adults exit the room, closing the door softly after they leave.

You glance around the room again as you sit on the foot of the bed. 

_Home._

_This is… home._

_They are my family. My real family. Mom and dad stole me._

_No.  
Emilia and Jason stole me._

_I wasn’t adopted._

_They stole me._

_They stole me to replace their dead daughter._

You stare at the wall in front of you, trying in vain to process what had transpired.

_I am Y/N Falconer-Downey, not Y/N Y/N/L._

_Ash was right._

Your head falls to your hands. You rub your face a lot more aggressively than you should, still trying to make this make sense. 

_I am not Y/N Y/L/N. I was kidnapped and raised by my kidnappers and I'm home. With my real family. My biological family. The family that I was stolen from._

You shake the thoughts from your head, pushing yourself up. You change into pajama shorts and a loose long-sleeve shirt. You plug your phone in on the nightstand and crawl in the new bed. 

The mattress is too hard, the sheets are too warm, and the comforter is too heavy. Your whole body cringes. This isn't right, you don't belong here. You fight the tears that come to your eyes for the millionth time that day. 

Despite the nagging discomfort, you manage to fall asleep relatively quickly. Normally after a few hours of sleep, you’re able to function normally, but after the announcement, the traveling, and confronting your parents, you need more than a few hours of sleep.

\------

_Waves crash at the shore, hot sand sticks to your legs and feet as you push piles of the grainy substance together. Someone hands you a plastic umbrella. You snatch it away and shriek with laughter as you stick it in the tower. You turn around, seeing Robert standing above you. He picks you up with ease, throwing you in the air then catching you. You laugh again at first until you see another familiar face._

_Mom’s brown hair falls past her shoulders as she calls your name. You begin squirming in Robert’s now tight grasp. She calls for you again, holding her arms out. You begin hitting Robert’s back with small fists, but he doesn’t let you go. You keep hitting, and hitting, and hitting in vain, trying to get your mom. He starts to run down the shoreline, the image of your mother fading as he takes you away…_

You jump upright, cold sweat covers your body in a thin layer and your eyes dart around the room. 

_Just a dream its just a drea- where the fuck am I?_

Your heart rate rises even more and you're about to run out of the room when you remember why you're there. 

I'm home. In my real home with my real family. 

You lay back down slowly, turning on your side to face away from the door. Light from the city bleeds in through the blinds, offering a semblance of familiarity. Half-dry tears stick to your cheeks, but you don’t even try to wipe them away. What feels like hours pass, and you're almost asleep when you hear the door open. You stiffen automatically, breath catching in your throat. 

Soft footfalls make their way to the bed. You close your eyes and even out your breathing slightly, silently hoping they wouldn’t touch you if they thought you were asleep.

The steps get closer until- 

Nothing happens. 

The sound stops until a soft sigh falls from their lips and lingers for a moment. Footsteps fill the room once more, but the door shuts quietly. You try to suppress the weird feeling with logic. They just got you back, they were probably checking to make sure that you were actually there and not dead or gone.

But after the individual leaves, you're unable to go back to sleep. The hours you got on the car and plane rides, and the hour and a half just now meant you weren't tired enough to go back to sleep immediately. You oll on your back and sit up, grabbing your phone off the nightstand as you do so. The brightness of your lockscreen makes you wince. 

_3:32 AM_

You sigh, running a hand over your hair. That's way too early to be awake for the rest of the day. Biting your lip, you mull over your options. You're in a very strange and large house with your biological family, people that you don't know, and you can't sleep. At home, you'd leave your room to watch a movie or read, but you’re here and you don't know where anything is. Sitting in bed seems like the more viable option, but then you'd be sitting in bed for at least four more hours waiting for someone to come wake you up. 

After a few minutes of arguing with yourself, you throw the expensive comforter off. Using your phone’s flashlight, you find your way out of the bedroom. The flashlight illuminates the hallway, revealing pictures you hadn't seen hours prior. The hair on your legs stand up when your bare feet meet the cold hardwood floors of the house with each step. Shadows dance along the wall as you move your phone to get a decent look of the hallway. Pictures of a baby girl and a young boy, animals, and a young woman singing decorate the wall along with various landscapes and abstract pieces. The stairs are also wooden with floating railing on one side. Floor to ceiling windows on the east end of the house show off the city lights and the smoggy sky. A light brown grand piano sits on a rug by the windows, various instrument cases lying around it. The small entryway leads to the front door where a couple pairs of shoes surround a coat rack. Couches and chairs reside on the west end in what you assume to be the living room. 

The stairs don't creak with your descent. Your footsteps are near silent as you continue to look around the house. From what you can see through the cloud of darkness, the walls are painted light blue with white accents. The floors are dark wood with rugs under the furniture. The living area is gorgeous with nice leather couches and chairs surrounding a coffee table. A large TV and entertainment set rest on a wall by the furniture. End tables decorated with pictures and vases surround the couches and chairs. Near the edge of the living room rests a table under a cabinet. One picture in a black matte frame with poorly painted designs and glued on buttons stands alone on the table. The difference was startling. Everything else in the house seemed to scream wealth and class, then there's this thing that looked like it was made by a four-year-old… You put your phone face down on the end table, flashlight illuminating the high ceiling. Picking up the photo gingerly, you examine the actual picture. 

A little girl with Y/H/C hair pulled into an updo grins with a tooth missing. She’s on the back of a young teen boy. His sandy brown hair falls in his squinted eyes, but he’s grinning nonetheless. Waves lap at the pale shore of the beach in the background. The little grips something in her hand, but it is unclear in the shadows. 

Your brows draw together. Obviously, this picture is of you and Indio, but why is it the only picture in a frame like this? And why is it out in a place where everyone can see it when it is not the picture of wealth that the rest of the house is?

“That’s us on the day you were taken.” 

You whip around so fast that you hit your head on the corner of the cabinet above the small table. Hot pain explodes in your temple. You wince sharply, curling in on yourself. The picture clatters to the floor as you cradle your forehead. Indio swears, picking up the picture and setting it back on the table. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, one hand resting on your shoulder and the other coming to hover above the hand cupping your forehead. 

"Jesus fucking Christ man, what the fuck?" You groan, pain still spreading through your forehead. 

“Lemme see.” He says. You give him a skeptical look before begrudgingly moving your hand. "Well, you aren't bleeding." 

"Yeah, you're a real MD aren't you?" You huff out while rubbing the knot on your forehead. 

“Sorry for scaring you, Y/N.” He smiles affectionately. 

“S’okay.” You grab your phone and turn off the flashlight. “I shouldn’t have been down here in the first place.”

“It’s your house too, y’know. You’re allowed to be down here. Mom might not be happy about it, but there’s nothing stopping you.”

You look down at your feet, suddenly very shy and unsure of yourself. How do people with siblings act? How are you supposed to talk to him without being awkward? Some people have told you that you and Ash have a sibling-esque relationship, but you’ve known her for years. You’ve known this guy for a few hours save for some interactions in the distant past. 

“What are you doing up?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head. His sandy blonde hair, a few shades darker than it is in the picture, falls in front of his eyes. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either.” 

Neither of you talk for a second. The pause is filled by the growling of your stomach. Your cheeks swell with heat as you bite your lip again. 

_Perfect timing. Just wonderful._

Indio laughs, eyes crinkling at the ends. “You want some food? C’mere,” he motions for you to follow him.

Crossing your arms over your midsection, you follow Indio to the stairs. Instead of climbing them, he walks around them. Behind the staircase is the kitchen. Indio flips on the lights, illuminating the grand room. There’s an island in the middle with a couple of bar stools around it. The room opens up to a dining area with a sturdy wooden dining table surrounded by cushioned chairs that were still shrouded in darkness.

“What do you want?” He asks kindly, turning to you expectantly. 

You shrug, glancing between him and the floor. 

“Do you still like cold pizza?” He asks, a smirk growing on his face. 

You shrug again. “Sure,” 

Minutes later, you and Indio sit at the island with cold cheese pizza. For the first few moments, awkward silence fills the air. You tear the crust of the pizza first, nibbling on it more than actually eating it. 

“How did you solve it?” He asks suddenly.

You swallow the food in your mouth. “Sorry?”

“How did you solve it?” Indio repeats. His brown eyes search yours as he continues. “The case has been nothing but hoaxes for eleven years. The FBI couldn’t find you. What- what happened? How did you do it?”

You pause, setting the pizza down on the pristine white plate. “Uh, I don’t know. I just- I don’t know. What do you know?”

“Irving didn’t tell mom or I anything other than you were alive, you solved it, and you were in Washington. I’m not sure what he told dad.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. He was right.”

“Then how did you do it?” 

“I don’t wanna talk about that…” Your voice trails off as you slouch in your seat. Stray hairs hide your face as you bow your head. 

“Alright. Do you still like Avatar the Last Airbender?”

"Yeah,” You shrug for the millionth time. You haven’t watched that show for ages, but you don’t want to go back to bed, and being alone sounds awful. 

He gets up from his bar stool and gestures for you to follow him. He leads you out of the kitchen and down a hall. He stops in front of a dark staircase. You wait a second, waiting for him to move. 

“Go ahead,” He says.

"Are we allowed to go down there?” 

“Yeah, it’s where we chill most of the time.” He explains.

“Okay…” You say, a small amount of skepticism lacing your words. . 

He goes first, walking down quickly. You follow. The first thing you notice is how cold the basement is. If you had to guess, you’d say that it was a good ten degrees colder than the already chilly house. It feels wrong walking down to the basement without the intention of going to the backyard or Mom trailing behind you to make sure you don’t touch anything. Every other step is lined with light bulbs, illuminating the way to the basement. 

Their basement is a lot cozier than yours. A huge television sits in the center of the far wall, couches, chairs, and a couple bean bags are arranged in a semi-circle in front of a coffee table, and a mini fridge resides next to the entertainment set. Instead of the large filing units and bookshelves containing useless documents, there are bookshelves with movies and spare coasters. 

Indio flops onto a beanbag, grabbing something from the coffee table. You stand back for a second, shifting uncomfortably. As the TV lights up in incredible fashion, you decide to sit down at one of the couches. He puts on the first episode of the first season. You glance at him before curling up in the corner of the couch. 

After a couple episodes, you feel the hair on your arms stand up. Someone’s looking at you. You look around, making eye contact with Indio. He smiles at you, eyes hazy. You lean forward, grab the remote, and pause the show. 

"What's up?" You ask.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's just so hard to believe that it's you, and you're home, and you were safe the whole time.”

“Oh,”

“Yeah,” He looks down at his lap before meeting your eyes once more. “Please tell me they treated you well.”

"Yeah, uh, yeah, they did." You say, looking back up at him. "There was no abuse if that’s what you’re worried about." You look back down at your lap, now playing with the drawstring of your shorts.

“Did you have any idea?”

“None.” There’s another thick silent moment before you continue. “How was it after I...?"

He catches on to the end of the question within seconds. "Everything was different. Mom, dad, and Susan always worried that something would happen to me. Dad almost relapsed. Everyone told us we were never going to see you again,"

"I'm sorry," You mutter softly, guilt lacing your words.

"You don't have to apologize, Y/N. None of it is your fault,"

You shrug again, eyes darting back to him for a split second. Pain and anger cloud his brown eyes. The ends of his sandy hair falls into his face as he stares at you expectantly. 

"It isn't your fault, Y/N.” His words are soft and comforting until they turn vitriolic. “It's their fault." 

The urge to defend your parents weighs heavy on the tip of your tongue. Your teeth sink into the soft muscle of your tongue to keep the words from spilling out of your mouth. You make the executive decision to start the episode again. Indio sighs, shifting on his seat. You lie down fully on the couch, head resting on a throw pillow. 

Without realizing it, you drift off. Something warm and soft is draped over you, and the sound of muffled footsteps are the last thing you hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Lemme know what you think. Your feedback keeps me going!


	11. Trending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Susan and your little siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains anxiety and mild self-harm. Proceed with caution

Hushed sounds fill your ears, someone breathing fast and the soft crocheted blanket moves from your shoulder. Arms wrap around you, tight and protective all the while a hand keeps your face squished against someone’s shoulder. A sound of surprise escapes your mouth as you fully wake up. You finally open your eyes to get a face full of brown hair. 

You try to squirm out of the hold until you realize it’s Deborah. Relaxing, you lean into the embrace instead of resisting. You sit there for a few minutes in silence, the previously panicked breathing evening out into smooth breaths. 

"Don't do that, Y/N. I thought I lost you again.” She chokes. You let a muffled apology into her shoulder. She doesn’t respond, only pets your hair and holds you tightly. The silence is interrupted by a long growl from your stomach. Heat rises in your cheeks. 

“Do you want some breakfast?” Deborah smiles, arms still wrapped around you.

“Yeah,” You answer, trying to keep the embarrassment out of your voice. She smiles, her eyes lighting up for a moment. 

"How do pancakes sound?" 

"Good." 

"Alright. Go get ready for the day, sweet pea. Breakfast will be ready when you're down." She kisses the top of your head and pulls away.

You go upstairs to the room and grab some clothes from your suitcase: a t-shirt and shorts. You hesitate before walking across the hallway to the bathroom. There's a toothbrush still in the packaging and an unopened bottle of shampoo and conditioner on the counter. This is easily the nicest bathroom you've ever been in. It's full of ivory tiles and squeaky clean, well, everything. The shower is in one corner. It's huge with a glass door and a rack of plush towels next to it. The bathtub is on the other corner. It's also a lot bigger than any tub you've ever seen. 

You scrub your teeth quickly before jumping in the shower. The shower is speedy, your hunger motivating you to move quickly.

The smell of pancakes wafts through the house as you pad down the stairs and into the kitchen. Indio sits at the table, typing on his phone as Robert and Deborah share a conversation. 

"Good morning," Robert says as he you come into the room. "How'd you sleep?" 

You shrug, taking a seat next to Indio. 

"How many pancakes do you want, sweet pea?" Deborah asks. 

"A couple will work for me." She places a plate in front of you before sitting down with her own. It's normal. A lot more normal than you ever thought any A-list celebrities would be. 

You eat your food, listening to them talk for a bit, taking everything in. Now that you're a little calmer and distracted, you felt still. Not calm, but not distraught either. It's an odd medium you're not used to. With your parents, plans for the day were discussed in full detail only to be recounted at dinner. It felt strict, almost like someone was taking notes they could study for an exam. With them, it was calm, casual. Not rushed, just smooth. It was weird, different in a way you didn’t like yet.

"We can furnish your room whenever you want to, Y/N." Your eyes snap to Deborah. Forcing a nod, you take a sip of some water.

After breakfast, everything is a blur. Deborah takes you upstairs and cleans the back of your hand. She patches it up in the bathroom you showered in with a first-aid kit under the sink next to tampons. After she got it bandaged, she kissed the wrapping. The gesture made you smile and she took you back downstairs to clean up breakfast. 

After that, everything begins to blur together.

The days went by fast- too fast, only smiling and nodding along with whatever your biological family wants. It's like math class; you mentally check out until you have no idea what's going on and you're ready to throw yourself out a window. 

You furnish your room within the first couple of days and have a fun time watching Indio struggle with the instructions to a vanity from Ikea. 

("Maybe instead of laughing at me, you could help out a little."

"Maybe instead of sucking at putting IKEA furniture together, you could be better."

"Maybe if you did this yourself, you wouldn’t be laughing."

“Okay, all I’m saying is tha-”

"Stop picking on your brother, Y/N."

"Sorry,"

"No you're not.")

You fill it with a bed, a desk, a dresser and an absurdly large bean bag. It's the bedroom you've always wanted. Deborah also took you out to get more clothes and an updated phone. 

("I really don't need a different phone. Mine works fine."

"I know, sweet pea. But I haven't been able to spoil you in a long time.")

Which, okay, made you feel a lot more guilty than you should have. 

You’re sure both of your biological parents want nothing connecting you to your old life with your parents in your new life. Deborah tried to convince you to replace your laptop as well, but you argued that too many important documents were on there. You finally conceded after what seemed like hours of discourse to replace it later on. 

But it's not only the phone quip that made you feel guilty. It's the glint in her eyes she gets when she looks at you, the money she’s spending to replace everything you have, and the far away look she gets sometimes that make you want to smack your 6-year-old self in the back of the head or steal a time machine to go back in time and change everything about this fucked up situation. 

You try not to think about it, though, not unless you have to. It's at times like this where you wish you had different summer homework or a huge math final to study for so you could distract yourself. Thinking about the last few days, the arrest, and talking to your parents before being taken to LA makes your heart race and your stomach flip; it is the last thing that you want to do, and if you had it your way, you would never think about it again. 

But you can’t not think about it. This is your life now, and you’re beginning to hate it.

You hate it because it’s different. You hate it because it’s not your home. You hate it because it’s your fault. Guilt, regret, and anger burst out when your mind decides it’s tired of being in shock about everything. If you could do it all over again, you would do everything differently.

It's been a few days, but each night you stare at the picture of you and your faux parents at Pike's Place. Knives stab your heart whenever you look at that picture. It results in the kind of hot, white pain that refuses to leave your chest. Nothing you've tried makes it better: praying, thinking, crying, meditating, showering, writing, reading, or watching Netflix and YouTube. Failure after failure makes you consider giving up entirely and face the situation head on, but facing the situation head on means more pain, and that is the last thing that you want right now. 

Yes, it's only been a few days. But each time Deborah gets that far away look on her face, each time Robert smiles at you makes you die a little inside. They’re so happy, so elated and content; a far cry from how they seemed during the time you were with Emilia and Jason. It hurts so much because you miss them, you miss Ashlynn, Lear, and your uncles, but most of all, you miss the ignorance. If you could do it all over again, you would have analyzed East of Eden instead of writing a fucking research paper in the first place. 

It’s painful and it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You're an imposter here. You don’t belong; this is not your home. Not this giant house that belongs to a celebrity. Robert, Deborah, and Indio are strangers.

You didn’t go to Deborah when you got your first crush, when you fought with your best friend, or when you started your first period. She wasn’t the one that helped you when you were at your lowest. She didn’t teach you how to study effectively. She didn’t sit you down and have hard conversations about the real world with you. You didn’t even know she was your biological mother that you were taken from until a few days ago. 

Robert wasn’t the one that taught you how to change a tire. He wasn’t there when you finally finished fixing up the car you were so proud to call yours. He didn’t teach you how to drive. He didn’t parade you around the family business as his when you were little. He wasn’t at each milestone: middle school graduation, your first date, first prom, your first day of high school, and he didn’t help you cram before your last round of finals. You didn’t know he was your biological father that you were taken from until a few days ago. 

Indio was never your big brother, as far as you’re concerned, you’ve never had a sibling. He wasn’t there to tease you or protect you from bullies. He wasn’t there to play games with you, or help you hide a broken lamp from your disappointed parents. He didn’t rat you out that one time you snuck out. Ashlynn is the closest you’ve ever had to a sibling, and even then, you would call her your cousin if asked. You didn't know that he was your biological brother until a few days ago.

And it makes you feel horrible. They should’ve been the ones to do that, but they weren’t, and you miss the people that did.

The guilt is overwhelming. Objectively speaking, you shouldn’t keep loving and missing them because they are in the wrong. But you can’t turn your back on eleven years of your life, that’s unreasonable. Yet, every time you look at that picture, every time you scroll through Emilia and Jason’s shared Facebook page, every time you look at the gallon of 2% milk in the fridge of your new home you miss them. 

You know that if you so much as refer to Emilia and Jason, you'll hurt your biological family. And they've already experienced enough pain, they've already hurt worse than anyone should ever have to. You observed the pain in their eyes when you were researching the case, but seeing it is a whole different story. You want them to be happy. Going along with what they want, smiling back at them, hugging them, being around them, pretending you don't know they check on you at random points in the night so they know you're still alive and okay, all of that makes them happy. 

You looked into all of their personal lives when you had the time. Robert and Deborah are divorced and a tiny part of you even remembers them signing a paper looking very sad. You gave them each a hug because that's what they did when you were sad and it made you feel better. 

You know about Susan, but you don't remember her. You know she's younger than Robert, you know they have two kids together, you know they love each other to absolute pieces. 

Thinking about your younger siblings makes you feel weird. You never had a strong desire for little siblings as you had Ashlynn, but the fact that you now had them is a strange reality. One part of you wishes you had known about them and is sad you weren’t there from the moment they were born, and another wishes you never knew about them to begin with. 

You also feel weird about internet stalking your father instead of talking to him about everything, so when he sits you down and tells you about Susan, Exton, Avri and the custody agreement that you have, you feign complete ignorance. 

"I'm taking you to meet them tomorrow. And we're planning on a split custody agreement for the time being. One week with me, one week with your mom. Is that okay with you?" He asks, keeping steady eye contact.

"Yeah," It’s not like you can disagree with him. "That's fine with me." 

The next morning, Robert picks you up in a nice black car. You place your bag in the backseat and get in the passenger's side.

"Good morning," He smiles while you buckle up. 

"Morning," You respond. 

"I feel like I should've taken notes yesterday.” You say softly. “How old are Exton and Avri again?"

Robert chuckles. "Exton is 5 and Avri is 2. You'll have no problem winning them over, trust me. Same with Susan. They'll love you."

You nod, pulling down the visor and messing with your hair. Nerves ate at your stomach, the fruit you managed to choke down felt more like a rock than a decent breakfast.

"You've met Susan before.” Robert starts, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the middle console. “You were in the ceremony," A smile grows on his face. “You were so excited, you almost knocked over some of the furniture in the building," He chuckles again, chocolate eyes glistening with warmth and love.

You smile back, emptiness in your eyes. You have no idea what he is talking about. You have never attended a wedding to your knowledge, let alone be in one.

The rest of the ride is silent, but it's shockingly short. The house looks just like the houses on the water back home. You try not to let yourself be awestruck by it as Robert stops the car.  
He wastes no time parking and leading you inside, a smile plastered on his face. 

The first thing you come into is the living room. Plush gray couches surround a coffee table with a glass on a coaster and a couple stray books. A fireplace resides next to it, and two large bookcases stand proud next to that.

"You can leave your bag on the couch for now, N/N." You do as you’re told, making a mental note to pick it up later.

"She's probably making a snack for the kids," He says after another moment, leading you through a walkway. 

A toddler sits in a high chair while a woman puts food away. She turns around when she hears you stepping in the kitchen, face lighting up when she sees you and Robert. 

"Hi," You say, offering a curt wave before shoving your hands in your pockets. 

"Hi," She smiles gently. Robert and her share a hug and a kiss. After that, she brings you into a hug as well. It takes everything in you not to stiffen. This is a woman you met when you were a little girl and haven’t seen since, but she’s also your step-mom. Thankfully, your introduction is interrupted by the sound of someone running into the kitchen. 

"Daddy!" The excited shriek from a small child makes you turn around. A small boy with blonde hair and bright eyes runs up to Robert. Robert crouches down, ready to receive the bundle of pure joy into his arms. He picks up the little boy and settles  
him on his hip with an exaggerated grunt. 

“Hi, buddy. How are you today?”

“Good.” The little boy says, wrapping his arms around Robert’s neck. 

“I bet. Did you have fun with Mama and Avri?”

“Yeah” He nods hard. “Daddy, who’s that?” He whispers, not knowing you heard him. 

“That’s Y/N, Ex. She’s your sister.” Robert whispers back, making eye contact with you. You stand awkwardly in the kitchen. Your experience with kids exponentially younger than you is limited at best. He squirms down from Robert’s arms and pads over to you. He stands in front of you, craning his neck to get a good look at  
your face. You crouch down to his level, resting a knee on the ground. 

“Hi,” You say slowly. “I’m Y/N.”

Wide eyes stare back at you. “Where were you?”

You hesitate. Lying to the kid is not the way to go, but how the hell do you explain to a five-year-old their older sister was kidnapped when she was his age and raised by other people? Robert opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to the punch. 

“I was away,” You say gently.

"Oh. Why were you gone?”

“I didn’t have a choice,”

“Why did you go away?”

“I didn’t get to choose that either.”

“Were you in trouble? When I’m in trouble I have time out and that takes forever.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips at his innocent question. “No, I wasn’t in trouble.”

“You weren’t?”

“Nope.”

“That means you can come play with me!” He grins, jumping up and down, almost vibrating with excitement. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Susan laughs, and Robert grins. 

“Uh, yeah, I don’t see why not.” You look to Robert for confirmation. He nods, smiling warmly. 

“C’mon, c’mon!” Exton exclaims, grabbing your wrist and tugging you. You stand, still slumped over because of Exton’s height compared to yours.

“I have a new swing set and you can push me on it! Then I’ll push you on it. And and and we can push Avri on the baby swing because she’s still real little and can’t go on the big swings like we can,” Words spill out of the little boy’s mouth as he pulls you out to the backyard.

\------

After what feels like hours of playing with the energetic little boy, you had a new level of respect for mothers. How someone would voluntarily do that day in and day out is beyond you. Robert’s busy on a call when you come back inside. Exton went to find his dad, and you went to help Susan in the kitchen. She gives you fairly simple tasks between bouts of friendly small talk before she drops a bomb. 

“How are you?”

“I’m wiped, they have a lot of energy.” You smile politely, chopping the onions Susan gave you.

She chuckles, but her smile morphs into something harder, more serious than the lighthearted chuckle. “Really, Y/N. How are you?” 

You slow down, turning the onion to its side, dragging the knife through it at a snail’s pace before pausing completely.

She takes your silence as an answer.

“It’ll take time, Y/N. But you’ll be okay. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” She places a hand on your shoulder, and smiles. You nod without looking up from the cutting board and dice the last of the onion. 

The two of you cooked in silence until the sound of fast footfalls interrupted you. You look up as Exton runs into the kitchen. He scampers behind your legs and clutch the back of your shirt. His pants for air are interrupted by sporadic giggling. 

“S-shh. Don’t let daddy find me,” He huffs through his giggles. 

“Okay, why don’t you go hide in the pantry?” Susan suggests. Exton nods, bolting to the pantry, throwing open the door and hiding inside, easily fitting in the small space. The panting giggles are easily heard, so Susan shoots you a smile and plays some music from her phone. The giggles are covered up for the most part. 

Robert comes down a few moments later to you and Susan still cooking dinner. He narrows his eyes, holding Avri’s hand as they walk through the kitchen. He takes a look around. You spare a glance or two, hiding the fact you knew something with ease. 

“Babe, where’s our son?” Robert asks, hoisting Avri onto his hip. 

“Who?” She’s nonchalant as she puts some of the used dishes into the sink to be washed.

“Blonde hair, brown eyes, five-years-old, and about yay-high-” He mocks Exton’s height using a gesture. “-was playing with his sisters and I before sprinting in here.”

Susan offers a shrug and a sly smile in return and takes Avri from his arms. “Check the playroom.” 

He cocks a brow before walking off. Instead of turning the corner to the hall, he stays at the corner, unbeknownst to Exton. After a few seconds, Exton pokes his head out of the pantry. He looks around before throwing open the door in triumph and proudly exclaiming that he won. His victory speech was soon interrupted by Robert dashing forward and scooping him up. 

Exton squeals as he’s tossed in the air and caught by his father. You can’t help but smile. But your smile soon falls as something tugs at the back of your mind. Before Susan or Robert have the chance to notice, you turn to the back of the counter. 

The sounds of the happy family fade into the background as static takes over. And suddenly you’re hot all over with sand in your feet and you know what’s going to happen. Gripping the counter with one hand, you force yourself to take a few deep breaths so you can help finish dinner. 

After a very awkward dinner, you're left to your own devices in one of their guest rooms. It's big, but you don't care to look around. All you can think about is the way Susan and Robert looked at each other, the love in their eyes and the devotion etched onto their faces.

They love each other so much. 

You can tell Robert and Deborah love each other, but it's a different type of love. Robert and Deborah don't look at each other the same way. They’re in a sort of platonic love. They smile at each other, give the other a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but otherwise, there's no physical affection from either party.

Robert and Susan are in it deep. There is no doubt in your mind they'll be together for a long time. The way they look at each other proves it. The mutual admiration and respect in the very depths of their eyes is something you’ve never seen, not even with your own parents.

Exton and Avri are so lucky. They have parents that love each other and love them so much. You flop on the made bed on your back, letting the day’s activities finally get to you. I guess I have that too? 

You sigh, rolling onto your side. Closing your eyes, you try in vain to tap into your emotions, but all you get is nothing. No anger, no fear, no happiness, no sadness. Nothing.

You bite your lip, rolling over to grab your phone for a quick distraction. Anything to help you run from your problems. You get up from the bed, pull your headphones from your bag and plug them in, ready to fill your emotional void with a usual binge. 

The first video on your recommendations: **_People arrested for the kidnapping of Y/N Falconer-Downey._**

Cold dread seeps into your skin as your eyes flit over the title again. 

_What?_

You frown, clicking on the video. Two reporters sit at a pristine desk with immaculate hair and makeup that do very little to hide their wrinkles. Their jingle plays before one of them starts the story.

“We have breaking news coming out of Seattle, Washington tonight. A reported arrest was made in SeaTac airport Friday afternoon for the kidnapping of Y/N Falconer-Downey.” The blonde says, blue eyes like daggers when they stare at the camera. 

"Y/N Falconer-Downey, the eldest daughter of pop-culture star Robert Downey Jr. and singer-songwriter Deborah Falconer has been missing for over eleven long years” The brunette picks up. “However, this case may finally be coming to a close after going stone cold."

"An unidentified couple was arrested at the SeaTac airport this past Sunday for the quote 'kidnapping of Y/N Falconer-Downey' unquote. Will this tragic story have a happy ending? Tune in at 5 PM Pacific Standard Time to hear the latest theories."

More people have to be talking about this. You close out of YouTube and log into the Twitter account you rarely use anymore. Swiping to the trending tab, your worst nightmare is affirmed. 

_Trending in the U.S.  
Y/N Downey  
#lostbutnotforgotten  
#IronDaughter  
SeaTac_

Shock encapsulates you as your fingers hover over the screen of your new phone. Your breathing becomes faster, faster and faster with every passing second. Your heart rate is like a boulder barreling down a hill, it only picks up speed and there is no end in sight.

In under two minutes, you're launched into a full blown anxiety attack.

You don't click on any of the trending terms. Instead, your phone slips from your hands and crashes to the ground. The noise of the impact makes you stumble back. Shaking hands cover your mouth as you slide down the wall and onto the ground. Your legs are glued to your chest as you bury your head in them.

This isn't happening. No. No way. This can’t be happening now. It’s only been a few days. He said this was handled, why isn’t this handled? 

It's like you're drowning in ice water. All of your muscles are locked from the shock of the video and the tweets. The panic swells in your chest, swelling in your airways and making it near impossible to breathe.

_make it stop make it stop please god anyone make it stop please i don't want it please_

Pins and needles assault your skin.

_This is real._

You can't breathe.

_They kidnapped me._

You rip one of the pillows from the bed, shoving your face in it to muffle your sobs. 

_My entire life is a lie._

The pillow does nothing for yourself, though. Your crying rings in your ears, louder than your heartbeat, louder than the video that's playing through your headphones, and louder than the poison running through your head. 

I can't do it help me please someone help please i need help anyone please help me please help

Without a second though, you pull your shorts up and thrust your nails into the softest part of your thigh, dragging them towards your pelvis. You do this over and over again until your breathing slows and you stop sobbing, the sweet sting giving you something else to focus on.

Bright red blood wells up in the scratches, slipping down the side of your thighs and onto the soft gray carpet. You stare, entranced by the way it drips down your leg. The scratches burn. The skin and faint blood sticks under your nails, making you cringe.

Your mind has slowed to a halt. A video still plays, but from what you can decipher, it's a news story about the Trump Administration. You lean back against the wall, tug the headphone out of your ear, and pull your shorts past the new marks and blood on your delicate skin, gripping the pillow like a lifeline.

You stay against the wall for god knows how long, staring at the shorts that now cover your bloody thigh. A knock rips you from your trance-like state. You tense, shoulders squaring as your eyes snap to the door. 

"Y/N?" 

As soon as you hear Robert's voice, you force yourself off the floor to answer the door despite your body’s protests. He smiles when he sees you; he always does. But his smile falls when he sees your red-rimmed eyes and puffy face.

"Are you alright?" He asks, concern entering his voice in a split second. You shake your head without thinking. "Can I come in?" You pull open the door more, and move to make room for him. He stands close to you, almost too close for your liking. But you're intensely distressed and he's right in front of you and wants to help, so you don't do anything when he wipes the stray tears off your face with his gentle thumbs. 

"What's wrong?" His voice is gentle, and for a split second, you feel like you’re back in Washington with your Dad about to hug you "I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong." Another thing Jason used to say. You choke up a little bit more tears coming to your eyes. Robert wipes them away. 

"The arrest is trending." You manage to choke out before the anxiety takes over. 

His face changes for a split second before he embraces you fully, gathering you in his arms. Your arms are stuck to your side, and you can feel the blood from your wound sliding down your leg. Gripping the end of your sleeve, you apply pressure to the small wound as discreetly as possible before wrapping your other arm around his back. 

"Don't worry, N/N. I'll handle this," 

You nod into his shoulder, tears steadily streaming down your face again. Robert is patient and gentle when he sits you down on the edge of the bed. He coaches you through the new wave of panic, not dissimilar to the way he did a few days ago in the police station. He lets you cry into his shoulder and clutch his shirt all the while he sways back and forth gingerly. It takes around half an hour, the tears run out, leaving your cheeks and Robert’s shirt sticky. But he doesn’t care, he only smiles and brushes some stray hair away from your face.

“We have our first meeting with the head of our legal team tomorrow.” He murmurs, tucking another stray hair out of your face. You meet his worried brown eyes and nod. He kisses your forehead and pulls you into his arms for another hug. 

_Will this really all go away? Will he handle this?_

You sniffle one last time. 

_Will any of this be okay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think! comments absolutely make my day, especially now that i'm in quarantine and my mom put the house on lock down


	12. Crumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Litigation is hell, and so is guilt and self hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reached 1000 followers on tumblr. I updated this fic to celebrate that.
> 
> **Warnings: SELF HARM, SELF HARM, SELF HARM DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY SELF HARM. victim blaming, swearing, awkward family events, vomit, and poorly researched legal processes**

Crawling into bed that night was the easiest part of the day. How could it not be? You didn't have to worry every single moment about what was happening. All you have to do is sleep. And sometimes, sleeping is the easiest thing. 

On the other hand, waking up is the hardest thing you have to do. Especially because of what you have to do after you get out of bed. 

Today you have to meet with their lawyer. Their lawyer that needs to discuss the thing that will get your parents locked up for at least 25 years. Your parents that aren't actually your parents, but your kidnappers. A part of you was tempted to stay under the covers until they’re forced to leave without you. A different part of you was tempted to abandon all hope and... never get out of bed again.

Nonetheless, you get out of bed anyways. 

The drive to wherever this lawyer works is as awkward as it is silent. Your eyes are glued to the moving scene to your right. Robert tries; he really really does. He wants to talk, but you seem so exhausted, so he leaves you be. Teens are moody and hormonal. Traumatized teens are moody, hormonal, and dealing with their trauma on top of it all. It’s almost a relief to pull up to the destination.

The skyscraper is huge, much bigger than the ones you've seen in Seattle. It's made of all glass, but the only thing in the windows is your reflection. You stare at it a moment longer than you should've, as now you can't look away. Your face is warped in the glass, but the bags under your eyes and the dull glint in your pupils is more noticeable than ever. 

Biting your lip, you tear your eyes away from the windows to follow Robert into the building. 

The lobby is spotless and open, the scent of old spice wafts through the air, and the floor is a shiny dark wood accented with metal designs you can't make out. A round desk with at least four receptionists are stationed in the middle of the lobby, the desk matching the floor. All of them are dressed in blazers and button down shirts with well-kempt hair and some of them are wearing makeup. Two people are speaking with a young man at the desk. It's silent, save from the occasional phone ringing or person talking. And can’t help but wrap your arms around yourself almost as soon as you walk in. The discomfort swallows you whole as eyes peel your skin as the sound of your walking gains their attention.

The two people at the desk turn around when they hear footsteps. It's Deborah and Indio. They smile widely seeing you and Robert. Deborah hugs you first, kissing your head and squeezing you tighter than you would normally be comfortable with. Indio gives you a side hug while Robert speaks with the receptionist, a young man with a crew cut.

You take a small step back from the group. Your hands find their way to your pockets, absentmindedly rubbing your scratches. Avoiding eye contact with everyone else, you take another look around the lobby. The image of the parking lot is crystal clear compared to the image looking in. You aren't sure why, and you don't have time to ponder. 

"Robert." A deep male voice cuts through the lobby easily. Your eyes snap to a tall man with dark skin greet Robert with a hug. The two men embrace like old friends, exchanging firm pats on the back and words of greetings. The two pull back, and the new man turns to you. He has a crew cut and is donning a five o’clock shadow. Clad in a stark white button down, gray slacks, and a gray blazer, he easily rivals the best dressed professionals you’ve seen. Not that you’ve seen many outside of scrubs or pristine white coats.

"You must be Y/N," He observes. "My name is Micah Chase, I'll be representing you and your family during the trial.” He sticks his hand out. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

You shake it quickly, forcing your lips into a firm smile. “Likewise,”

His handshake is strong. Micah leads you to a large room. There's an oblong table in the middle of it surrounded by five chairs. Papers litter the head of the dark table. There are only a couple of windows in this room, letting in a good amount of natural sun. There are a few generic landscape paintings and more adventurous abstract paintings hanging on the wall. 

"Have a seat," Micah says, sitting at the head of the table. You sit at the end of the table, next to Robert and across from Indio. 

"We are in the long and tedious stages of Discovery. Right now, we’re gathering witness testimonies. We’ve contacted the detectives, as well as a few character witnesses.”

Trying to look invested in the meeting, you nod along to what Micah is saying. 

“Y/N, you are a lay witness.” Micah continues, something in his voice changes. It’s careful, cautious, almost like he’s scared to tell you what he needs to. “Your testimony will determine the sentence for each of them.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep calm. Testifying against Jason and Emilia- against your parents- is something you do not want to do. At that moment, you want to get up and walk out. No way in hell are you going to help incriminate your parents. You can’t stop the words that fell from your lips. 

“Do I have to testify?”

You feel eyes burning your skin. There is no doubt in your mind that they’re staring at you, judging you, getting mad at you. Your skin crawls like there are a million bugs burrowing into you.

Micah pauses, not expecting the question. He blinks. “Not necessarily. There is enough evidence in this case that they will be incarcerated for upwards of twenty years.” Sensing the discomfort festering in the room, Micah moves on. “Emilia is being charged with child endangerment, federal kidnapping, and interference with custody. Jason is being charged with aiding and abetting a criminal, and interference with custody. We are expecting a motion to change venue as the media is already picking up on the story because of the arrest in Washington.”

“So we’d have to go to another place?” You ask, some of the panic seeping into your voice. Going to trial was terrifying enough, let alone going away from home. Not that this was home…

“It is a possibility, yes.” Micah affirms. “I expect the trial to take place fairly soon, either this time next year, or fall of next year.”

You raise your eyebrows. That was soon? 

You don’t mean to, but you tune out the rest of the meeting. It’s a trick you picked up in math class: acknowledge the words the instructor is saying by nodding or humming in agreement, and ignoring anything and everything they say. Besides, the dumbed down legal jargon was confusing, let alone the actual legal jargon. It’s confusing and very hard for you to follow. But thankfully, the meeting doesn’t last much longer. You take the hint when everyone else gets up to shake Mr. Chase’s hand. You followed suit, shaking his hand and following Robert, Deborah, and Indio out of the building. 

All you do on the ride back to Robert's is think: think about testifying, think about your parents, think about the cell they're sitting in, and think about the news. There is no way that this hasn't blown up yet; no way in hell. 

So you check your phone. You go back to twitter and type "Y/N Downey" in the search bar. People are still tweeting about it. 

**_I can't believe people think that y/n downey is still alive lol. she's prolly dead like tf_**

**_let us pray for the safe return of y/n downey in the name of jesus amen_ **

**_Lmao what kinda twisted ass motherfuckin bullSHIT #y/ndowney [quoted tweet unavailable]_ **

**_Yall believe that y/n downey was legit found?_ **

**_Two random ass people were arrested for kidnapping y/n downey and if this shit ain’t some white ass people of walmart shit then idk what is_ **

**_New video on Y/N Downey up now! Can't for you guys to watch this one, there’s been a real break in the case._ **

You bite down hard on your lip when you read the last one. Someone made a video on this? That's crazy. You click on the link and mute your phone. But as soon as you do this, Robert pulls into the driveway of the house. You shut off your phone quickly and follow him inside, trying not to let him know that something else was on your mind.

“There’s some time before lunch will be ready.” He says as the two of you enter. 

“Okay,” You say, escaping upstairs before he can say anything more. He sighs when you leave, smile quickly fading into a pensive gaze.

And as soon as you got to the room, you whipped out your phone and played the video with the volume low. The YouTuber was in her car on the way to the gym, and she seems genuinely excited about the news. She is over the moon that there are answers for the family. You had to shut the video off thirty seconds in and start some breathing exercises. 

Robert is taking care of it, everything is okay. Robert is taking care of it, everything is okay. Robert is taking care of it, everything is okay.

He couldn't even keep you safe on a beach, can he keep you safe from this?

The buzzing of your old phone brings you back to reality. Deborah hadn't made you shut it off, so it still receives messages. You pull it out of the drawer you had stuffed it in to be met with multiple texts from Ashlynn, one of which was a screenshot from E!News.

**_Y/N_**

**_Y/N cmon answer me_ **

**_bitch i swear to god_ **

**_Call me, Y/N. Lemme know you're okay_ **

You bite your lip and use your new phone to make the call. It takes a few rings, but she answers..

"Hello?" Ashlynn almost snaps, obviously stressed.

"Hey, Ash." You say, trying not to sound as panicked as you are. 

"Y/N! Oh, my god! It's been weeks! What the hell? No "Hey im still alive" or anything?" You rip the phone from your ear as she yells. "What the fuck, dude? You could have at least let me know that you weren’t dead!" 

"I'm sorry, Ash." you sigh, too mentally exhausted to put up a fight, even if you think she's being unfair. 

"Are you okay? How are things?" 

You sigh again. "I'm alive, I had a meeting with the head of legal today. Makes me wish my mom was a lawyer and not a doctor so I could at least kinda understand what was going on," 

Ashlynn pauses for a second, catching the comment, but she doesn't acknowledge it. "And how'd that go?" She presses.

"S'okay. I mean as okay as it could've gone with someone wanting to put my parents away for life."

Ashlynn pauses again. She doesn't have a chance to address what you're saying before you speak up again. 

"How are things on your end?"

"You will not believe the rumors that are spreading, girl. Lucy was saying that Emila and Jason got arrested for being part of the Italian mob. Brian texted me asking if you were sold to a sex ring, Anahi thinks that you moved to Seattle with that guy you talked to last year, and Yasmina believes that your dad was selling fucked up cars for drug money. No one's caught on yet, but people cannot keep their fucking mouths shut, man. It is ridiculous."

That makes you laugh. "Moved to Seattle? Now there's a plan." 

She hums. "What's going to happen when you grow up more?

"I have no idea, Ashlynn. I-I can't think about that right now," You get up from your bedside and start walking slowly around the room. "I mean, my entire existance is a fucking farce and now I'm in LA, I've been trending all over social media. I'm scared this is my future." 

"Don't think like that, Y/N. You can still own a small army of rabbits when you get older,"

Without another word on your end, you hang up the phone and flop onto your mattress. 

_What am I going to do?_  
\------

Another week has passed, and you're at the same oversized building. The same thing happens: Deborah and Indio hug you, you meet Mr. Chase in the lobby and he discusses the case while the lot of you are walking to his office. And again, you zone out and nod when expected to.

Your head hurts, your eyes sting, and your body aches. Maybe you're getting sick? You're nose isn't running, you're not nauseous, you feel fine other than wanting to pass out. But now whenever your head hits the pillow, all the memories come flooding back. Everything from your childhood, the kidnapping comes back to you and it's terrible. 

And something about being around them is bringing it out more; you're actively remembering them. You remember when they used to sing to you to get you to sleep, and that it was so pretty. Something deep inside of you longs for that comfort and warmth. You also remember teasing Indio, snatching his things and hiding in the closet under the stairs, not giving the item back until he found you. 

You remember being taken. It's more vivid each time you think about it. Every single time her face is clearer. You remember thrashing in her hold, crying out for your daddy when you couldn't get away, you remember the feeling of her sawing off your hair and forcing pills and water down your throat. it's the worst feeling ever. You wake up choking on air, running a hand over your hair to make sure it's still there, and you'll sit on the floor by your bed and cry because everything is too much. It's too much, and no one understands. 

As much as you love her, Ashlynn is terrible at emotional support. She is the person everyone goes to when they need a problem solved, not when they need a hug. She could listen, sure, but this was something she wouldn't know what to do with.

Robert, Debroah, and Indio are still strangers in your eyes. You're positive that they can hear you crying almost every night, but what would they do? You would pretend that everything is fine and make them leave anyways. 

You have no one to go to, no one would know where to begin to help you. A therapist would be nice, but the starting process is scary. It took you three tries to find Dr. Liu, and that almost caused more harm than good. 

So you're alone. Completely, and utterly alone. 

And it hurts. It hurts when you’re forced to sit with a lawyer and hear your biological family talk about putting your parents in jail for ever and ever. It’s a slap in the face. 

Maybe you’re being unfair. Maybe they don’t know how you feel; you haven’t told them that the thought of these meetings make you want to jump out of the window. Maybe you should talk to them, communicate with them. But whenever you think about telling them that you’re uncomfortable, you remember being in the police station, how happy they were, how tense they were when your parents were led through the police station, and how relieved Robert was to see you come out of the interrogation room.

So you force down the agitation and need to defend your family with your last breath. 

Mr. Chase finishes up by saying something about making good progress with the case and proceedings. He even thanks you for being so cooperative. (So being cooperative now is being silent and blankly staring at a wall, huh.)

And like last time, you shake his hand, and follow the others out. But this time, you go home with Deborah. You slip into the backseat, ignoring the concerned look she gives you through the rear view mirror. 

"Are you feeling okay, Y/N?" She asks, voice like warm honey.

You shrug. "I think I'm just tired,"

"Okay, why don't you take a nap when we get home?"

"Sure," you shrug again. 

The ride back to Deborah's house is short in theory. In actuality, it takes way too long and you almost fall asleep in the car. You don't though, and let Deborah and Indio hug you before heading to your room and laying on your bed. You close the blackout curtains, turn off the lights, and crawl into bed. For once in ages, it doesn't take long for you to fall asleep. 

_You're playing on the beach. Hot sand is blanketing your feet, the smell of sea salt and pineapple waft under your nose. Something heavy is weighing you down. You can' only walk at a snail’s pace. You're holding a pale of wet sand. Someone takes it from you, tips it upside down, and pats the bottom of it. A young teen with blonde hair that matches the sand floats into your line of vision. He's speaking, but all you can hear is the ocean. His voice is garbled, muted almost. He points at something, and sticks a thing in the sand. You can't make it out. Then you're running. Someone important caught your attention. They throw you in the air and catch you with ease. You're speaking, your mouth is moving, but your own voice is alien to you. Nothing makes sense. You spot a dog in the distance. A big akita being walked by a friendly-looking person. You squirm down from the hold and sprint as fast as you could to meet the big puppy._

_Someone is lifting you off the ground._

_No_

_They're speaking and their voice is clear at this point._

_Stop it_

_"I'm sorry about my daughter,"_

_I'm not. Put me down! Leave me alone!_

_As you're being carried somewhere, you're thrashing and you don't like it and you want your dad and your mom and your brother, anyone but her-_

Your entire body jerks as you wake up. Cold sweat drenches your pores as nausea tears your stomach apart. The air has since been stolen from your lungs, and you let your face fall to your hands, salty tears slipping between your fingers.

_No no no no please._

The only thing you can do is stumble to the ground and curl into a ball in between the nightstand and the bed. This was also normal for you. And this time, for some reason, you bring your hand up to your ear and pick at the part where your helix is fused to your scapha. The images keep coming back. The dog, your mom, Robert screaming, your own screams. It’s awful, and it’s all you can think of. 

The self soothing can only be so helpful, but it does calm you down. It takes a few minutes, but you can finally stop crying. 

Soon, there's a knock at your door. You pause, debating whether or not to answer the door. 

“Y/N?” Deborah calls. “Are you up?”

“Yeah!” You croak, moving to get your feet. “Just a sec please.” 

Deborah's face changes from content to concerned when you open the door. "Oh, dear. Are you feeling okay, Y/N?" She asks, feeling your forehead. Her cool hand is a welcome comfort.

"You're warm. Why don't you go lay down again. I'll bring you some food and medicine. How's that sound?" 

You nod. Food and meds sounded nice. Not leaving the room also sounded nice, so did the lying down part. That's enough for her. She smiles and heads back down the stairs. You crawl back under the covers, pull the blanket over your head, and will your mind to shut off.

Deborah lets herself into the room,carrying some crackers and ginger ale. You peek at her from under the covers as she sets the food on your nightstand. She catches your gaze and smiles softly, reaching out to pet your hair before leaning down to kiss your forehead. You try not to tense up. This felt so unnatural yet so right at the same time. 

We're your parents darling, not those people. 

Emilia's words ring through your mind. If you accept this, you're betraying the people that raised you. If you resist, you're betraying your biological family. If you do neither, run away and hide for the rest of your life or simply... end it, everyone loses. There are no winners; there will never be a winner.

"Let me know if you need anything, sweet pea. I'll be downstairs." You nod at her words. Tears tug at the back of your eyes. You want your mom and dad, you want Emilia to take your temperature while muttering medical stuff to herself and you want Jason to make you soup and make bad dad jokes. The tears begin to fall down your cheeks. With shaking hands you wipe them away. 

You push yourself off the comfortable bed, and grab the backpack that you use to bring stuff from one house to another. In the bottom of the main pocket, covered by tampons, pads, makeup wipes, and a hairbrush is your old phone that's stashed in a small opaque bag you used to use for hair pins. You pull it out. The metal is cold against your hands, it's heavy, and brings an unexpected comfort. It vibrates as you turn it on. The lock screen is a picture of you, Emilia, and Jason in front of the ocean at Double Bluff beach. You're all smiling. The picture was taken in May, merely a month before... it happened.

More tears fall down your cheek. It's never easy looking at it. You expected your feelings to die down after the first couple of weeks. It's been almost a month and you still want to cry whenever you look at a picture of them. It burns. It's like your chest is on fire. 

Maybe you’re rushing the healing process, maybe your expectations are unrealistic, and maybe you should take this slow. But you don’t know how. You don’t know how to heal without erasing the past eleven years of your life. You don’t know if you can heal at all. You don’t know if you want to. 

Glancing around, you hug the device close to your chest. You need to hear their voices. You need to know that they’re still with you in some way. They are your parents. You need them. Crawling back into the bed, you go to your voicemail. To your surprise, there are a ton of new ones, most of which are from numbers that you’ve never seen before. 

You scroll down, landing on a new one from Padre from the day they were arrested. You hesitate before clicking on it. Glancing around, you make sure no one is around. You turn the volume down and click play. His voice is barely audible, but it’s smooth and soft at the same time. 

_Y/N your mom and I are on the plane. I overheard the flight attendants talking about an arrest that will be made as soon as the flight ends. Erik and Carlos told us they haven’t heard from you in days. I need you to know that I love you. I did my best for you. Every sacrifice that I made, every late night and therapy appointment was because I love you._

You squeeze your eyes shut as the recording keeps going. 

_I know that this is going to look bad. I know that the media will be all over this, but please remember who your real family is. Please remember everything you mother and I have done for you. You’ll always be my daughter. I love you._

The voicemail ends with a beep. The call was made while you were at the police station, writing the statement that will land them in prison for the rest of their lives. 

There’s one from Mama <3 on that same day, at that same time. 

_Y/N, oh my sweet girl, what did you do? There are people coming to arrest us soon. Why did you do it? Were we not enough for you? Those people left you alone, now you want them back? Sweetie, why? All we did was love you and now you’re betraying us. When all is said and done, remember what we did for you._

Her tone is condescending, harsh even. She wants you to feel guilty, and it’s working. Overwhelming regret comes over you. Now, more than ever, you’re wishing you didn’t go to school on the last day, wishing you didn’t let your curiosity get the better of you. Anger rips through your chest. Anger at yourself, anger at your parents, anger at everyone involved, How could they rip you away? How could you be so stupid to call the police? How fucking could you? You can’t breathe, your ribs start to burn, and chills rack the rest of your body. 

_No no please not again i cant_

You arch your back and begin silently gasping for air. You’ve felt this way a few times in your life, and all of those times you ended up with scars. But you can’t control it. The chills turn to fire and your skin crawls. There is only one way you can get rid of it.

You get off the bed, walk out of your room, down the hall and lock yourself in the bathroom. Leaning over this sink, you attempt to clear your head and calm your body, but it does no good. 

_Remember what we did for you_

_I love you_

_What did you do?_

_What did i do what did i do what did i do what did i do what did i do why why why why_

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the sink with all your might. You're shaking terribly and you stare at yourself in the mirror. Nausea overtakes you. Lurching forward, bile forces its way up your throat. 

_Remember what we did for you._

_They left you alone_

_Were we not enough?_

_Remember your real family_

_Their words aren't stopping._

The world spins like a merry-go-round. But out of the blurred images, you spot a pink razor sitting on the sink. Your old scars are on fire, itching for the sweet sting of the blade and the crimson blood.

_Do it. You'll feel better. It'll make it stop, it always makes it stop._

_You let go of the sink, stumbling towards the tub._

_Don't. Don't do it. You're better than that, better than hurting yourself._

_No you're not. You betrayed the people that loved you the most. You're disgusting. Vile. Gross. Evil._

A sob makes its way out of your mouth. Without a second thought, you turn on the shower full blast, strip, and grab the razor. You take it apart with ease, your past experiences aiding you in a sick way. Your fingers get cut while you do so, but you don't care. 

The thin metal blade shakes between your fingers.

_Do it, no, do it, no, do it, no, do it, nononono, do it!_

You finally sink the blade into your skin with care. Stillness, some kind of serenity takes over for a moment. You can breathe, your tears stop and everything is okay. The razor keeps cutting your skin, despite you only intending for a thin cut. The stillness dissipates all too quickly, leaving you broken down and chasing the feeling. Desperately, you slash at your skin. Cut after cut, layer after layer, you mutilate your ribs. Your body tears, but you feel nothing.

You betrayed your parents, you're an evil child. They loved you and you sent them to jail. 

You do it again, about half an inch lower than the initial cut, and you continue to slash at your birthmark until blood drips on your legs and then to the floor. You stand there, bloody razor blade sitting in between two of your fingers. The bright red blood oozes out of the cuts, making your birthmark invisible under the sea of red.

The pain finally registers completely. An inaudible cry leaves your mouth as you leave your trance like state. Your hand covers your mouth as tears stream down your cheeks. Stinging pain shoots over your abdomen as you struggle to breath without making a sound. 

But the pain gives you something to focus on. So does the blood. Mom always hated the mess blood left. It was always too hard to clean and stain everything. 

_Clean it up, mom would be mad. Clean yourself up, you need to look presentable._

You get in the shower, the cold water pelting your skin. Your wounds burn now, so does your entire stomach. Yet you watch, transfixed, as the water turns light pink and the wounds become visible. The scars are now reopened. Your birthmark is riddled with cuts and blood; many more cuts than there ever were. 

You stand in the water for some time until you can’t bear it anymore and turn it off. Even then, you stand in the shower until your legs buckle. You reach for a towel and it and press it to your wounds. Water drips off of you as you step onto the bath mat and dry off. 

You rummage under the sink until you find the first aid kit. It's small, and all you can do is hope it has what you need to patch yourself up. Luckily there’s gauze, tape, and disinfectant. You clean yourself up, disinfect the wounds and use a square of gauze to block off the area entirely. 

You go on autopilot as you patch yourself up, get dressed, and put the towel in the hamper. You go back to your room and crawl under the covers, mindlessly eating the crackers and drinking ginger ale that Deborah had left, drained of any emotion whatsoever.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Lemme know what you think :)
> 
> I update this every Wednesday on Tumblr and AO3


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